Promises in C-Minor
by Grimoire of Thorns
Summary: Kate's hand fled his, rose to her brow like a bird startled to a loftier perch. "My god, Rick," she murmured, as if stricken numb with disbelief. "I thought I knew you. You...you let me think I did." Her expression grew taut, both mystified and hurt. It wounded him to behold it, and to hear a new brand of uncertainty in her voice when she whispered, "Who are you?"
1. Mysterious Notes

The detective sits cross-legged at the counter in Castle's kitchen facing the windows in the living room beyond. A worn-out white thermal shirt and better-fairing blue leggings fend off the coolness. She sips, and her toes curl with pleasure in wool Miss Piggy socks. Freshly brewed coffee from the mug in her hands is ably clearing the mental cobwebs. She's still debating her reception of the winter morning. The brightness of a clear sky is appealing despite the chill. Across the counter Rick's rumpled bed hair is making her fingers wiggle against the ceramic with conflicting desires to reach over and either smooth or playfully ruffle. _Decisions, decisions. _At her back, Martha is fending off her son's offer of breakfast. The diva's perfume from the previous night drapes the air, heavy and a little cloying, but growing increasingly familiar in a good way.

With a bemused frown Kate gestures with her mug and asks, "Castle, why do you have a piano?"

"Better question: Why not?"

The detective's gaze is held by the clean, almost white light gleaming from the sleek lines of the black grand. A smile tugs at one corner of her lips at his reply. _Spoken like a true playboy. _That's a façade time has done well to diminish. "It's Martha's," she guesses.

"Contrary to what her manner often implies," Castle returns glibly, "she doesn't own anything here beyond the confines of her room. Come to think of it, mother, how much of your room came out of your pocket?"

"Thirteen hours," Martha chimes in her smoky voice. "You'll never fully cover that bill, sonny."

"Thirteen hours of labor?" Kate muses, eying her fiancé askance. "And you call _me_ stubborn?"

"She's counting early labor," Castle replies dryly, shaking his head at his mother. "Even then I was the epitome of a courteous guest. I gave ample warning of my arrival followed by a smooth exit in a timely fashion."

"Smooth?" Martha protests. "Ten pounds, six ounces, Richard. Even then you overindulged."

Rick's eyebrows shoot up as a palm rises self-consciously to his soft middle.

Kate hums with mirth and dives in for another sip of her coffee. Amidst its spreading warmth she says, "Don't sweat it, stud. I'm the only one you've gotta impress from here on, and I'm not complaining."

He shoots his mother a look of smug satisfaction.

Martha tosses a dish towel in his face in admonishment. "It's his piano," she acquiesces, reminding the detective of her original, briefly misplaced query.

"I can't recall seeing anyone play it before." Neither of them answers. The silence drags on for several seconds, prompting a backwards glance. Both have their mouths slightly parted as if to reply, their gazes locked on the other. Her smile wavers to behold an unexpected level of seriousness haunting them.

"Ah," Castle finally begins haltingly, "well, mother plays now and again."

"Not so much anymore," the other disagrees. Her aged appendages come together in her lap with the fingers stroking at her knuckles. "These hands don't have the same finesse." There seemed to be plenty of strength in the forestalling digit she levels on her son. "Not a word from you."

Castle favors a small, fond smile in place of mockery. "I miss it sometimes." The older woman looks surprised and suspicious of an impending punch-line. "What? You play beautifully."

"Bah," Martha replies with a wave of one hand. She focuses on Kate and assures, "He's sentimental this morning. I was okay, but just okay. Don't let him tell you different."

"Maybe," Castle's willing to hedge. "I'm no critic of the arts. To me it was just…nice."

The red-head offers a surprised, fleet smile. She looks to Kate and gives a lift of her eyebrows while lowering from the stool to stand. "I'm going to go before he has a chance to spoil that." She circles the counter and reels her son's head gently down to give his temple a smack of her lips. He chuckles quietly, deeply. Their gazes meet and linger. Martha's smile eases away. She kisses his temple again and softly pats his other cheek.

A stealthy prickle of unease creeps into Kate as the diva walks away. The gesture began casually enough, but once again acquired an indefinable weight uncommon to either participant. Does the actress's pace increase somewhat as she takes the stairs up? Her face remains towards the wall, pointedly hidden.

But then Castle is turning back to Kate with that smirk of his in residence. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepen as his narrowed attention wanders her huddled figure. It's too early and she too rumpled with sleep to feel desirable, but somehow he succeeds in heightening her awareness of her body before flipping the towel over his right shoulder and lacing his fingers together for a crack of the knuckles. "How about you? Breakfast?"

The man is too good at distracting her. Kate feels herself waver and capitulate to his charm. She smiles somewhat, nodding. The expression lingers as he moves confidently about the room, gathering the tools and foods necessary. It's funny: his domesticity charms her, and it's strangely arousing. Castle isn't the first man she's allowed close enough to be afforded the opportunity to tend to her in such fashion, but he is hands-down the most enthusiastic. In the theatre of her mind, however, those capable hands are engaged with other tasks in which he's equally and rightly confident. The chef damn well knows the effect it has on her as he dishes up two plump sausages, hash-browns smothered in a layer of melted Kunik cheese, and a loaded egg-white omelet.

It's one more example of the manner in which he celebrates his claim on her. _Look what I can do, Beckett_.

"Castle," she sighs around the final forkful, "you can't keep stuffing me like this. I don't want people confusing my wedding dress for a party tent."

"It's the most important meal of the day," he chides. "Still, let's keep it to a one-man tent, hmm?"

The detective quivers briefly with humor, but finds her gaze snagging on the piano in its corner. It's probably a bit late in their relationship to be questioning the item's presence now, but damned if she can deny the mystery presenting itself there. "Have you ever thought about donating it? It's such a lovely piece. Shame to see it sitting idle like that."

"It stays," Castle answers immediately. The steely certainty draws her surprised gaze back to him. A disarming smile greets her. Is he trying to cushion the adamancy of the reply, or mutely asking for a change of subject? Before she can decide her companion leans across the counter to kiss her cheek. No. He lands against her neck, and it's more a caress of his lips. They breeze across her skin to the shell of her right ear and press warmly. Amidst a scalp-prickling heightening of receptiveness she feels the gliding stroke of his tongue and the hard edge of his teeth when he nips her lobe. "Give it an hour or so until it's just us left here." He strikes the words with deliberate care, thick and smooth. "Now that you called my attention to it, I'd love to fuck you on it."

Shock and arousal duel through the halls of her fast churning veins. Kate feels the sinking of her teeth into her lower lip. An arch smile claims her mouth as she leans back enough to meet his gaze. Blame it on being freshly satiated with breakfast, or his rare indulgence of coarse language; haunting images unspool in her mind of luxuriantly paced love-making, letting him assail her insides with long, sure thrusts as his warm hands banish the chill from her skin. She combs her fingers through his ruffled hair. "So you _do _know how to play. That's music to my ears."


	2. At A Loss

Beckett is patient, but after several seconds of lingering she arches an imperious eyebrow and shoots her fiancé _The Look_. It takes a moment for him to catch on, and his expression appears genuinely bewildered.

"What?"

"It's not an armrest, Castle," she replies dryly, jerking her chin pointedly to the side.

"Huh? Oh!" he blurts, snatching his hand away from her ass. A rueful chuckle escapes, quickly swallowed up in a rough clearing of his throat. "Sorry." A platinum blonde, middle-aged waitress at the diner's counter holds out his change. The author mantles subtly under her withering scrutiny. Her pastel pink lips curl with distaste. He tips generously without meeting her eyes again and tugs Beckett into a hasty retreat.

"It's not funny," he chides as they continue the drive moments later.

"You looked like your Mom walked in on you mid-hump!" she lilts, laughing again.

Castle just winces. He scowls through the windshield at the oncoming terrain.

"Oh," Beckett mourns mid-chuckle, and pat his thigh consolingly. "That's actually happened? Poor guy."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Shocking," she remarks teasingly, but with an edge of rebuke, "because you're usually an open book."

Either he fails to detect the glint of seriousness or chooses to ignore it. They pass several miles in silence. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's not uncomfortable and the open countryside of Long Island is lovely even in the largely monotone shades of winter. Skeletal deciduous trees lining the roadside gleam with melted wetness in the midday sun, their nakedness stark contrasts to the snow. They are skirted by smaller conifers and dwarfed by others with growth rings measured in centuries. Highway 27 from New York City to Montauk is totaled in more than mere miles and hours. It's a special retreat for them, a world apart.

"I got busted by my folks a time or two in my younger days," Beckett offers at length, waggling the proverbial olive branch.

"Yes," Castle issues somewhat sourly, "tell me all about the other guys you've been caught boffing. It's my favorite car ride game. What has raging hormones, bad boy charm, and has penetrated my fiancée?"

_Jeez. When you put it like that…gross._

"What a surly man," the woman observes with a mockery of peevishness, because she doesn't really mind. Rick isn't prone to morose behavior often, and rarely for long when it occurs. If he needs a little indulgence on her part to get through a spell of it here and there along the way, well—_through sickness and health, babe_. "You should just tell me what's on your mind already. It'll make you feel better."

Blue eyes shift from the road to view her askance.

Kate lifts an arm to point down at the top of her head. "Detective," she supplies impishly.

Castle sighs, starts to smile against his will, but combats the expression until it settles into one of consideration. His jaw shifts with intent, but he says nothing.

"You've been like this for over a week. I mean, not quite like this, but different anyway."

"I'm not hiding from you," he asserts, a bit too defensively.

Kate blinks at his choice of words, frowns lightly in the passenger seat. "Alright, enough," she declares, slipping by inches into interrogator mode. "I didn't say you were hiding." The driver shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "We both know what overcompensating implies." _Guilt_. She doesn't have to say it.

Another sigh unwinds from him. "I'm trying to find the right words first. It's frustrating, okay? Bear with me, please. I'm honestly not hiding, but I have been stalling."

Mild incredulous infuses her reply. "_You_, Richard Castle, are having trouble finding the right words." She blinks in the face of his frustrated nodding. "I—I don't understand. What words? What are you talking about? Oh god, is this about the wedding? We have to postpone after all?"

"No," he soothes. "It's nothing like that. And not to split hairs, but _you're_ the one who's been talking about it, asking about it."

A light of realization blooms in her mind. "Oh shit. Is that about your piano? The timeline fits."

"Not—no," Castle answers haltingly. "I mean yes. That too." Kate just stares, bemused. He notices in the midst of another sideways glance and growls softly, twisting the steering wheel in his hands until the leather creaks from the abuse. "I'm referring to the past," he finally clarifies in a calmer tone.

"We've had conservations along those lines before. You never got riled up like this."

"I've never discussed…this."

Kate starts to reply, but screeches to a halt. The sheer seriousness the driver exudes, so often absent otherwise, demands a pause to evaluate. With some hesitance she asks, "What do you mean 'never'?"

"Just what I said."

"Never? Not with Alexis or your mother?"

"Mother knows. She," Rick pauses and stares at her for a silent beat. "She can't talk about it. Just the once; that was all she could bear." _Oh shit. _Her pulse-rate is jumping in her veins as if it wants out. _What have I gotten us into?_ "That's always suited me fine," her companion continues evenly. "Nothing I said then seemed to change her way of thinking any. As a parent, I understand only too well now."

"Uh," she begins, trying to sort the confusion from her sudden misgivings. "You're not making sense."

"I know, damn it. I told you I don't have the words. Listen, we're almost there now. I'd rather wait."

"I definitely don't," she blurts. God no—let the unknown ax fall if it's going to. It's imperative to make that happen as soon as possible. The resulting damage can't be assessed until it does.

"This is hard enough without focusing on the road too."

"Oh god," Kate groans, pressing her fists to her stomach. "This is going to be bad, isn't it?"

Man. The look he levels on her in reply. She knows that look. It is knowledge coupled with the sad expectation of some unknown inevitability. Whether she shows it or not via a similar expression, that's the same feeling the detective gets right before dropping the life-changing news of a victim's death onto their family members. Experience has taught her over time the terrible reactions that will inevitably follow. Seeing him wearing it now is more than enough to forestall the immediate need to know.

A decisive unease has perforated their comfortable silence. The lack in the sedan hangs like a pall in the air. It's almost suffocating. Kate reaches for the radio, but hesitates upon the knob and leaves it be. This is going to be bad. She doesn't want to remember it with a soundtrack. With her luck the perfect wedding song will come pouring out of the speakers, forever marred by this tense ride through Montauk.

Few cars present themselves upon the icy roads. A couple pick-up trucks pass, each with grills armed with snowplows. Fewer still pedestrians reveal themselves. She and her partner pass through the more populated sections with hardly a blip to distinguish their arrival or departure. With a glance into the side mirror, Kate asks, "Where're we going?"

Castle's voice is distant, almost weary. "Montauk Point."

"It's probably closed." _Please God let it be._ _No, don't. Fuck—I don't even know which to pray for_.

"It'll be open."

And it is. God help her.

What did Castle do? Or did something happen _to_ him? It must be the latter if Martha still feels raw about it. It has to be. _He…got lost in all these woods or something, almost died. That's bad. It could be that._

"It was summer then," Castle says quietly. "A hot one by New England standards."

"We don't have to do this," Kate hears herself protest. _Damn._ She lifts a supplicating hand in the air even while hanging her head in shame. "Shit. Forget I said that." Her mother would be appalled. Hiding from the truth is not the way of Beckett women.

"Tell me to stop any time," Rick invites, but it sounds disconcertingly like pleading. "I don't need to talk about this, Kate. I just can't hide it anymore. Not this time—with you." Secrets. Meredith's lamented observations of their marriage were right; he kept her at a distance. "We're getting closer to the day, and it's been like a chain wrapped around my chest, pulling tighter link by link." The words remind her of Detective Raglan in the coffee shop. She winces hard. Castle doesn't seem to make the connection, continuing, "And then you…asked. Close enough anyway. I knew it was time to bring you here."

"This where the bodies are buried?" she asks acidly, getting angry now. Secrets. Kate thought they were well and truly past this hurdle. It's hypocritical, but she can't help being outraged. Damn him.

To her horror his features go bloodless before her very eyes. He tries to recover, to hide behind a smile, but it's more of a grimace, and his voice is raw with the unwitting impact her words inflicted. "Not anymore." The coldness which sweeps in through the opening driver's side door seems to go right into her core, like someone's lips hovering at a candle flame before snuffing it decisively out.


	3. The Boy upon the Beach

The parking area at Montauk Light is a sprawling oval of blacktop within the surrounding forest. It's been plowed since yesterday's heaping helping of snowfall, but Rick's car is the sole occupant. Looking back at it from entrance off Montauk Highway, the automobile seems forlorn amidst all that emptiness. A glance ahead reveals her husband-to-be striding towards the crosswalk, similarly solitary.

_Well you wouldn't be if you'd wait up_, Kate beams to him mentally.

She got him pretty worked up with her reaction to his admission of having previously undisclosed baggage. _Damn, damn, damn._ How could she not, given what he'd been saying? Though her concerns about what's coming have not diminished, logic and reason returned in the interim, reminding her that he is afraid as well. Castle needs her to be solid for him, at least for a little while. So, the detective was given an allotted freak-out moment. Okay. Now it's back to business.

Kate jogs after her partner. Smooth-fit jeans lend her lower half a great silhouette. As good as flypaper for eliciting her partner's wayward hands to her backside apparently, but the single-digit temperature ruling the day cuts right through them. Her calf-length boots are equipped with modest heels at least.

That is small comfort from on her back.

Blinking hazel eyes stare up into the sky. The fall was so sudden it didn't even hurt. _Um_. She huffs, and then giggles briefly. _Even on the worst days… _Rick appears into view above her. His obvious concern does precious little to dissuade the fit. Her companion purses his lips and cocks an eyebrow as she quivers in the snow, trying to smother mirth fueled by embarrassment.

_You're mental_, his look declares, hovering on the verge of amusement. "I never thought I'd see the day, Beckett."

"Don't look at me," she protests mildly. "I'm disgustingly horizontal."

"No, no. Take it from me: it's a fetching angle on you." The rumble of a throaty chuckle escapes him as he lowers to one knee. Kate circles his neck with her arms and he hoists her upright. Both of them brush away clinging snow from her pants and coat. "Are you okay?" The way his blue eyes drift to one side suggests the question isn't as simple as it might appear to a casual observer.

"Better now," she replies firmly. "I stumbled a bit is all."

"Everyone stumbles now and then."

"Not everyone has someone to help them up, or to hold onto so they don't fall in the first place." Less subtle, that, but it does the job. She curls an arm into the crook of his right one when he offers it. They set out into the snow again together. "Can I ask though…did it ever occur to you to tell me this before now?"

"Of course!" Castle returns forcefully. His eyebrows lift, followed ruefully by one corner of his mouth. "Of course it did," he repeats more calmly. "Believe it or not I've learned my lesson with holding back. You have every right to be upset with me. I know that. But this was never a secret I meant to keep from you specifically, Kate. I've kept it from the world in general and for most of my life. There are other people involved. It's not just my story to tell even if I wanted to, which I don't. I never did."

"But you are now," she observes when he hesitates to continue.

"Yes," he answers slowly, "but it's not about wanting to. It's about full disclosure."

Kate frowns to take in the apologetic hunch of his shoulders and the contrasting determination set into his jaw. "Did someone hurt you, Rick?" Even to her ears that comes out laced with an electric undercurrent of protective anger. Castle pauses in their walk to face her. His gloved hands burrow into the pockets of his navy p-coat. _Closing off on me again_, she notes, though he doesn't seem aware. "Sorry. Tell it your way," the detective tries from a different angle. "You said it was summer."

"A hot one," he reiterates by way of confirmation, slowly growing distant again. Silent reasserts itself for a time, but he shakes himself out of it to focus on her. "Is it okay to tell you this way—kind of like it's a story? Somehow it feels easier, or at least, ah, more appropriate."

"More appropriate?"

Rick moistens his lips and sends his gaze into the snow between their feet, but his voice is steady and smooth, matter-of-fact. "I haven't been Richard Rodgers for a long time, Kate. He might as well be a fictional character for all I remember of him."

"Tell it however you need to. I'm just glad you're doing it, Rick; letting me in. I can see it's not easy."

"No more difficult than it was for you to do the same. But you've been _in_ for longer than you know. This is simply an event that occurred to some people a long time ago. It's not me. I just happened to be there. What we've built together over these past several years—_that's_ me. My daughter, mother, and my work," he lists with obvious agitation, "both with you at the precinct and in my writing. That's where you find me." The last five words are thrust out in more of a growl. "Not in these godforsaken woods!"

A trickle of fear creeps right down her spine. She can't bring herself to ask: _Who are you trying to convince?_

His fingers twitch to feel hers entwine among them, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he nods once as though answering an unspoken question and turns to lead her across the street. A snow-laden red pick-up is parked outside the lighthouse in the distance. Side buildings to their right and ahead on the left are both closed up with their windows black in lieu of occupancy. There's no discerning their function from the outside, and Castle offers no explanation. In fact he veers away from the tourist attraction to a side road at their left which leads into the woods, presumably winding down to Montauk Point.

"Talk to me," she prods gently.

Castle's head lifts and turns to her. "Right," he murmurs. "Summer. I was here. I…_he_ rode his bike here from town. It wasn't a new one like some of the other kids have, but he liked it anyway."

"You, uh, he made a long trip."

"Yes," the other agrees with a humorless smile. "The summer place Mother owned back then was closer than mine is, but it was still a few miles off from here. It would've had to have been significantly more to dissuade the young man back then. He'd come to see about a girl."

Kate can't help a brief pursing of her lips.

Rick's eyes narrow somewhat with affection to behold it. "He was just a boy, Kate, and she was sixteen. Laura. She was his babysitter, but the young man thought…"

"That she liked you? Uh, him."

The author tilts his head slightly to one side in a hedging gesture. "Not in a romantic sense. He was still teetering on the phase where girls and cooties are mutually inclusive. But Laura was different. She was so vibrant in the way she engaged him." The author's brow creases slightly and his lips quiver with a smile that ultimately does not emerge. "It's as if he brought her similar joy. The young woman would set him next to her at the piano and they'd play together. With wide eyes, she told him he was a prodigy. Such a designation meant nothing to the boy except that it somehow made her happy. They shared a connection he hadn't found elsewhere, not for lack of friends or loved ones, but simply because the fact is: some people are…special together."

A fragile smile hovers at Beckett's lips. _I couldn't agree more._

The snow grows deeper as they walk. No plow has been driven along this route. Only the overhanging boughs of the bordering trees spare them the additional inches that would otherwise be hampering their progress. Still, the author pauses to frown critically at her jeans. The hems are already dark with moisture.

Goodness. He makes her ache sometimes—thinking of her comfort even now? "I'm fine," she assures. "Keep going."

Castle hesitates, but complies. "One particular summer night, Richard heard her talking on the phone to someone about going to the point. He didn't understand the implications involved, or comprehend the difference in the way she smiled during the conversation. At that time this place was used as a lover's lane."

"Prime real-estate," Beckett observes, admittedly swept by a mild wave of nostalgia. "The murmur of the ocean, the seclusion of the trees. No lights from town to dampen the stars, and the lighthouse nearby. Très romantique."

Her companion nods once, but his expression disagrees. He looks ill.

Kate gives his hand a small squeeze.

"Um. It was already late when the boy biked out here. Rather, an early Wednesday morning. He didn't encounter anyone else coming or going, but that wasn't strange at such an hour." In the snow-laden woods where noise is swiftly defeated, the sonorous flow of his voice seems like the only sound left in the world. "The boy rode over the bumps in the dirt road, using them as ramps by which to launch his bike into the air. In addition to the distraction of playing, he was on familiar terrain. Both helped him forge ahead, and he did need the help. An overactive imagination made him especially susceptible to being afraid of the dark."

"So you snuck out to follow her? How'd you pull that off?"

Castle's eyes slide to hers and his lips curve in a small, sad smile.

"Oh damn," the dark-haired woman murmurs. "Martha wasn't home, was she?"

"She was supposed to be. I'm sure she meant to. You have to understand: acting is like any business. It's all in who you know, but to a greater degree than normal. Where we might see her going to parties and having fun, to her the same function is akin to a job interview. We effectively survived on her ability to, well, carouse."

"I'm not condemning," Kate supplies evenly, "or condoning."

"Good," he says, surprising her with a hint of coolness in his tone. "You're not equipped with enough knowledge or experience for either where she's concerned." Kate isn't put off by him making the point. Indeed, the protectiveness of behalf of his loved ones is endearing. It's a list she happens to be numbered among.

Castle reels her back to the present when he continues. "I remember hearing the music first." He doesn't seem aware of switching back to first person. "I slowed down when I heard it, stopped in the road a little ways from where we stand now." His head tilts somewhat as if perched to listen to a sound that is still audible ages after the fact. Beckett shivers at his side, not solely from the cold. "It's John Denver. Annie's Song."

That's a hit from 1974. Summer. He would've been five years old.

_Oh fuck_.

Dread _swells_ to renewed life within her chest. The first time she asked about his fascination with murder he said…what? Right: that story about finding a boy on the beach when he was five years old. At the time he passed it off as fiction. And she…she had never questioned the matter again.

Richard goes quiet. It stretches on for a full minute before Kate gently strokes his arm with her free hand. Part of her wants to lift her fingers to his lips instead._ Please don't say what I think you're going to._

"They told me she was already murdered her by the time I arrived." He doesn't wince. Kate does. "But I've always wondered if that was true. The science obviously wasn't as good back then, maybe not good enough to legitimize a claim like that. It would certainly be an easy lie to tell under the circumstances."

"The boy on the beach," Kate issues through numb-feeling lips. "In the b-blood that hadn't yet washed away."

Castle turns to face her, his expression unreadable. That is so much worse to behold than grief would be. "So you remember. Yes…that was me. Eventually."


	4. Buried Truth

Kate Beckett isn't prone to tears, and they don't spill from her now. It wouldn't shame her if they did. There is, however, a steady sheen hovering on the verge of precipitation. It blurs the details of the world. Anger and a deep whirling of regret elicit that. _My god_. She should have pressed him more, pushed for answers. How could she have known? There was never any indication…

The author was a chameleon; a collage of substance hiding in plain sight via playboy persona. And for too long she'd bought into it just like everyone else. Christ. What kind of cop was she? What kind of fiancée? _Am I that fucking blind—or are you just that good?_ Either way she's leveled by the revelation.

Castle's voice intrudes; a strangely soothing sound among her inner turmoil. "Beckett?"

Kate's hand flees his, rises to her brow like a bird startled to a loftier perch. "My god, Rick," she murmurs, numb with disbelief. "I thought I knew you. You...you let me think I did." Her expression grows taut, both mystified and hurt. An unfamiliar brand of uncertainty steals into her voice like a flavor upon her tongue that was alien until now. "Who are you?" she whispers.

"You know," he replies grimly, and he looks so damned certain.

"Do I?" Beckett lifts the appendage at her forehead to present it in a forestalling gesture. "Wait. God. I'm so sorry. This isn't about me. I'm not trying to make it be. I'm just... Don't stop talking."

"It damn well does concern you. Of course it does. Look, I understand it's a shock."

"Castle!" Kate feels herself teetering on the razor edge of a mild hysteria. She should have asked. She could have at any time, and it's not like it never occurred to her to try. But good heavens, he could have offered too. As private as her grief has always been the detective can't imagine hiding such a defining aspect of her life, most especially from someone she loves. The war within her between sympathy and accusation is powerful, too much so to even attempt addressing now. "Please," she beseeches tightly. "Don't stop."

The dip of the sun into the early afternoon pours its light into the blue eyes regarding her. They are so clear, beautiful, but the secrets behind them cast a chilling shade of the unknown. "The killer was a local senior—as in high-school. He came from a family with money. So did the victims though. No one tried to use their influence to sweep it under the rug," he adds soberly. "But it was kept within the local community as much as possible. It was a different time."

Kate's blistering tone should have melted the snow. "I didn't ask you for a fucking summary."

Castle doesn't flinch. On the contrary, his expression is blank. That might work with someone who hasn't spent the past several years learning the emotional attachments guiding this gesture or that tone of voice. A sudden lack is just as revealing. The very distance he strives to create between himself and that summer night is one more detail that makes it clear the opposite is true. "What else do you want to know?"

"What do I want to _know_? What happened to you!" she all but shrieks.

The silence that falls in the wake is deep.

When his jaw shifts in its set and his head lowers some the glare Castle levels on her is so fierce that Beckett falls back a pace involuntarily. It's easy to forget that he's a big man, and though somewhat softened by luxury, still a decisive force to be reckoned with. She's been scared for him, and with him, but very rarely _of_ him. Yet in his unbridled anger her partner exudes a frightening aura of menace. "Save your pity for the victims," he hisses with pure venom. "There were two more that night because I couldn't stop him here. Two more dead girls. Four total. He buried them on the beach, naked, face-down."

Beckett is speechless.

It is horribly fascinating to watch him spool up all of that anger and dark intensity and drag it back behind his walls. Soon it's gone even to her intimate perception of him. The voice she hears bewilders her; it's strong, cold, and authoritative. "You'll forgive me if I don't dwell on myself."

So much of their past is rolling through Kate's mind now. Rick's shifting from one school to the next—had his past caught up to him somehow? The adoption of his superfluous demeanor—a personality that shines brightly enough can be blinding to people who might otherwise attempt to look too closely. His relationships with women—who would dare get so close to someone again? Even Jerry Tyson—_oh God_. The violent animosity her partner bore towards that serial killer shone so much clearer now.

Beckett hears herself stammer. "I—I…"

"You don't have to say anything," Castle issues quietly. Her knees almost buckle when his hand nestles between the folds of her coat and into place against her left side. The feel of his thumb fanning smoothly out over her hip is so electrifying that it draws her jaw down into a useless, wordless gape.

Kate flinches away from him again, stunned by the intensity. A shaky finger points into the air between them. "Gimme a sec," the woman husks, and bends to rest her hands upon her knees, sucking in a deep draught of oxygen. "I'm not upset with you," she clarifies. "Just let me…process."

Crazy, but her body is reacting to the situation as if this were another near-miss. Brushes with death on their cases these days elicit an almost unquenchable ardor from both of them. There's so much more to lose now, and such a divine manner of celebrating their endurance when tested by finality.

"I can't believe you kept this from me," Kate finally manages. She's relieved to hear her tone match her feelings on the matter, lacking accusation. The words actually came out wrong. What she meant was: _Of all people you could tell this too—wouldn't I have been the most predisposed to understand?_

Thankfully, Castle interprets her meaning without the clarification. "Well, in all fairness, you tend to put my mind elsewhere. You always have." She looked up between tumbled locks of her dark hair in time to catch the flicker of a smile at one corner of his mouth. "Honestly, Kate, it's a relief. You're my oasis."

"So you do think about it."

"Sometimes," Castle replies slowly, as if reconsidering even while speaking. "But I'm referring more to…I don't know. The event itself doesn't haunt me so much. I can't explain that. There is a feeling that comes over me now and again though, a sense of, ah, impending disaster. Who was that state psychiatrist that helped us out with Morlock on that vampire case? Dr. Holloway. He'd probably tell you—what? That I have abandonment issues? A mild dissociative disorder? It does feel like it happened to someone else. And it's true that with the exception of my mother I've lost connection with anyone and everyone who knows what happened that night. People slowly disappeared. Not because they blamed me." His lips curl into a sneer. "Hell, they called me a hero, because without me as a witness the murders might've never been solved. Some hero," he concluded bitterly. "All I managed to do was to wash up on the shore later that morning a little more alive than dead."

_Five years old_. "Oh, babe—

"Don't," he snarls, slipping eerily closer towards looming again. His gaze slides right to regard her peripherally, cutting blades of blue. "I don't blame myself for what the killer did, Beckett, only for what I couldn't, and it's not your place to dissuade me. It's no one's place. None of you were there."

The detective echoes his small, sad smile from earlier. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

"I know," her fiancé concedes, and drops his gaze to the snowy ground. "I know you get it—as much as anyone else in my life could hope to. That's part of why I decided to bring you here. I'm just sorry it took this long."

"There's so much you're leaving out," she can't help to gently protest.

Rick doesn't flash another glimpse of that deep well of anger. Instead he sighs mutely with a plume of frosty vapor. "What does it matter now? I survived."

"It matters because I love you, Rick. I want to know every scar, inside and out."

"Is this where you point out how hypocritical of me it would be to say no? After how much of yourself you've shared with me over the years?"

Beckett drifts back to his side and reaches for both his hands. The writer doesn't shy away. "No, Rick, but that _is_ my point. I told you all of that because I wanted you to know, and more importantly because _you_ wanted to know. It's nice when someone really looks at us, when they care enough to try in spite of resistance."

"Maybe I was just morbidly curious."

Kate smiles and pointedly wiggles her left hand ring finger against his palm. "Maybe not."

"That's damning evidence," he agrees with the ghost of a smile. His grasp on her shifts to let his thumb stroke across the engagement band and the presence of the stone, hidden though it is between both their pairs of gloves. Even then, however, the lighter aspect of him shines from beneath a fearful furrowing of his brow.

"I'm not going anywhere," Beckett asserts. "You don't have to carry anything alone anymore. Thank God neither do I."

Castle shakes his head and sighed quietly again. His forehead lowers to rest lightly against hers and simply by the set of his eyes on hers she reads the message of capitulation. "Is there nothing I wouldn't give you?" he wonders aloud.

She kisses him. He moves against her lips, stroking hers with his, prolonging even that brief connection for another half a second. There is nothing unfamiliar about how that feels. Lowering to a natural stance, she claims a steadying breath and squeezes his hands, "Ready?"

Castle turns slightly. Beckett follows his stare to the bend in the road ahead, shortly after which awaits the termination of the tree line and an open, icy shore—where the bodies were buried. Waves break there, diminutive peals of thunder that give way to the sibilant hiss of sea foam dissipating on the sand. "No," her partner answers at length, "but there's no turning back for us now."


	5. Alone and Adrift

The ice and snow is denied purchase some yards from the restless shore. Tufts of grass and rocks are laid bare along the delimitation between winter's pallor and the purview of Mother Ocean. Standing where those two forces clash—forces nearly as old as time—is strangely unsettling amidst present circumstances. This is not an everyday sight to her. It feels like they've stumbled upon an impression of God's footprint.

_Or _m_aybe not God, all things considered._

"Low tide," Kate observes aloud. She immediately wishes she hadn't. The inane statement only emphasizes what she doesn't know to say—how unfamiliar this territory is. The detective is the one with an oversized anchor, and the writer is her indefatigable buoy. She's prepared to rotate positions on his behalf, but in these initial minutes the prospect looms as large as the sun-spangled sea. Words tumble from her brain to her guts where they twist apprehensively: _How do I do this?_

"You belong here," Castle says. Turning at the waist reveals him studying her profile through his iPhone some yards distant. A press of his thumb mutely announces the capture of a stolen moment. His smile is subdued, but alive. "Right there," he elaborates, "with the wind in your hair and the waves coming in at your feet, prostrating themselves before an untamed goddess."

A lopsided smile claims her unexpectedly. Sometimes his words are a tickling poke in the ribs, on occasion a supportive hand at her back. Still others it's more like he's fucking her with them, which is obscene. And she is obscenely receptive. "Be glad I'm not," Kate submits wryly. "You'd be one drenched sap."

Castle didn't laugh, but his smile tightened at the corners of his mouth. "Galene then." He pronounces it: _guy-leen_, an exotic word of unknown origin. "That's probably a more appropriate comparison."

"What's that?"

"She's one of the Nereid from Greek mythology."

Sea nymphs. In stories they aided sailors imperiled by violent storms. Kate's smile wavers, because the parallel is discomfortingly appropriate—to him more than her. It designates her as a savior, but she's thirty-five years too late. She is too small a vessel to contain how much she wishes that were not the case.

The departure of her amusement is like a thrown switch. Rick's smile leaves too and seems to take the light from his eyes along with it. "His name was Llewellyn." Just speaking it seems to banish some of the color from his face. "I knew it was him when I followed the music around the bend in the road. It was coming from his car: a 1969 Mustang Boss 429. He was the only one in town who owned one at the time, you see."

"You own one of those," she blurts in surprise. It's in the garage at his beach house. With a small twinge of embarrassment she realizes that some part of her suspected it was a more recent purchase, something he'd obtained with her in mind after becoming aware of her interest in muscle cars.

His next words crush that theory into dust: "Not just any one of those."

Beckett stares at him for a small eternity, stricken by the implications. She wants to scream at him. Her throat aches with the effort of holding it in. _Why? Why the fuck would you do that to yourself?_ Instead she sucks down a breath and pushes it out slowly, shakily. "Can you…explain that for me?"

"No," he replies hoarsely. _It doesn't make sense even to you, does it?_ As if he'd heard the question, Rick meets her eyes and asks, "Can you?" There was such hunger to know etched into those rugged features. The woman ached to provide what he sought.

Except…oh damn. Maybe she could.

"I know," she began hesitantly, wanting so badly for the words to be right, "that when the pain of Mom's murder was fresh, I was drowning in it. I'd have grabbed onto anything to keep myself afloat." She touched at the place between her breasts where the chain which bore her mother's ring habitually rests. "Dad gave me this. Obviously. It's not something I could have ever taken. It's strange," she continued softly. "Until now I never thought about whether he'd known what he was really giving me at the time."

"A lifeline."

"Yeah." She sighed, frowned. "Of course he knew." A hesitant amusement unexpectedly awoke. "Before it all, he often fell back on her in times of need. Whenever my emotions were running high about a boy or some kind of drama he'd get this antsy look about him and say, 'Let's go see what your Mom thinks about that, Katie.'"

A rumbling chuckle eased out of her companion. "Would that I could've done the same."

Beckett's lips curved, but quickly straightened to realize she'd strayed into talking about herself again. Yet her partner seemed to have profited from the comparison. The haunted gape of his eyes had returned to normal width. The author seems to rally himself even as she watches, pulling together all the jagged pieces. That kind of strength is not something she would have imagined beyond her fiancé's capabilities.

Seeing it happen though…

If Kate let herself go to him now she'd stop him. Sure as hell. And after witnessing the cost thus far she doubted another day would dawn in which she could ask him to pick up the story again. The woman remained very still, crossed her arms beneath her breasts. Her gloves clench into tight fists.

At length Castle continued. "When I came around the bend the mustang was parked right at the end of the road, facing the ocean. It was beautiful," he adds, so quietly that she strains to hear clearly. "It looked like a big cat crouched in the dark, its taillights glowing red. The passenger door was open."

"He saw you?" Beckett asked, hoping to ease him along in the telling a little.

"Not right away. He was down on the beach. Digging. I couldn't see him from where I was. For the life of me I can't recall now what I was thinking at the time. But I wasn't afraid. Llewellyn was _that_ guy, the one the rest of us wanted to be. He was popular, smart, athletic, but also good humored. With his attributes he could've been a jerk or a trouble-maker and probably gotten away it. But he didn't. He was friendly to jocks and geeks alike." Castle's eyebrows lifted and fell; he shook his head once. "It's a cliche we've heard so many times, but it's true: everyone liked him."

_Sounds familiar._

Beckett watched her partner unblinkingly, waiting for a sidelong glance or half-hearted smile. Something. Anything. But if the author was aware of the parallels between himself and the description he'd just given there was no indication. Words tumbled in her mind again, too many possibilities. She chose, "What changed?"

"Nothing," Rick answered. His expression hardens. "The veil was pulled away from the monster's face—nothing more."

"What do you mean?"

"Llewellyn may not have been the one to physically initiate trouble, but it was never far behind him. Montauk was a small community even then, but with a disproportionate amount of strife among its residents. No one made the connection because…he was the way he was. But in the aftermath, with the illusions dispelled, people talked. They began to realize that a lot of the disparagement between people, families, and even some businesses had begun or were enflamed by a comment Llewellyn had made or something he claimed to have seen. A long series of small lies," Castle murmured tonelessly, "that slowly metastasized and turned neighbor against neighbor. He was always killing us. But by inches—millimeters even—so we never understood it was happening."

"Something must have changed," Beckett insisted gently, "for him to reveal himself that night."

"Oh. Yes, in that respect there was a change. Graduation—or at least that's my theory. There was never any proof concerning that detail one way or the other. I'm not sure anyone was even interested in his motive at the time. Not that I blame them considering his crimes."

Kate frowned in bemusement, but almost immediately stiffened with realization. "Oh shit."

Castle studied her intently from across the sand. "You see it too."

"People would have been expecting him to leave Montauk."

"For college or whatever," Rick inserted.

The sick logic of it made Beckett shiver even as her blood hummed with the dark thrill of achieving some form of conclusion. "A self-driven young man like that; it'd be weird if he didn't. But if he left—

"He would've had to give up his sandbox and all his favorite toys."

"Christ," the detective hissed softly. Then growled, "The pathetic little bastard."

"It is pathetic," Castle agreed. "In more ways than one." Something about the way he said it drew her gaze. "I'm not sympathizing," he growled deeply. The writer went rigid while saying so, bolstering the legitimacy of the claim. "But I can see how the rest of us exacerbated the problem. We helped build Llewellyn up into something he wasn't, put him on a pedestal to which he had no rightful claim. If we had been really looking at him instead of gazing admiringly, maybe those girls would still be alive."

"Rick, that's not fair."

"No," he seethed in reply. "No, it isn't." Anger coils in his broad shoulders and the tautness of the fists at his sides. Kate doesn't take a step back this time. _No more distance between us_._ Not even an inch._

The dark-haired woman stopped herself from driving the heel of a palm into her forehead. She cursed herself mentally for nearly missing it. Maybe part of Castle did hold the town at large accountable. But his anger wasn't directed at the other citizens of Montauk. It was pointed inward at himself. He said _we_. But he meant _I_.

Before she could chastise him the author sighed and strode to the shore at her left side, facing the ocean. "I know how that sounds," he assured tiredly. "It's not really something I carry, Beckett. It's just…"

"It's just frustrating to look back and know you could've done something," she concluded. "If only you'd known."

"Yeah," he mused with a small, humorless smile. "If only."

Kate steeled herself and reached to grasp lightly around his right forearm. The familiar solidity of him, the scents of him detectable upon the air; it's all a strange juxtaposition to this daunting newness. The fine hairs upon the nape of her neck arch to attention from the sheer rightness of their contact. "Tell me the rest," she murmured, stroking down to his hand and grasping it. "My poor toes can't take anymore getting sidetracked."

Her fiancé's broad shoulders stirred with a glimmer of mirth that didn't reach his solemn expression. "I laid my bike down and went to the car. It was empty. The dome light was on from the passenger door being ajar." His chest pressed lightly into her arm with the expansion of a deep breath. "I remember the smell of the black leather interior. Bucket seats. Gleaming panels. Annie's Song coming through the speakers." John Denver would probably never strike her the same way again. "The car looked so mysterious and…adult. I mean: something I knew even then was beyond my ability to wield or fully appreciate."

Kate didn't prod him along again, didn't even think to. She was as good as lost with him in the memory.

"I heard something else too though: a strange and rhythmic rasping sound I couldn't place."

"A shovel," she voiced, hardly aware of doing so, "hissing against the sand as he digs."

"He was half in the headlights, half in the dark on the shore. The first grave was already a few hours old. I arrived just as he was completing the second—Laura's."

"He killed and buried them one at a time?" she asked, but even doing so, remained entrenched within the mental image he had painted with his words.

"Judging by the extensive trauma on the first victim, police assume it was unplanned; a complete loss of all self-control and moral inhibition. But once he'd taken that plunge, they theorized, he couldn't stop himself. So he did it again. And again. And again." Beckett pursed her lips into a firm line. "I think they're close to the truth, if not wholly correct. I saw him. On the beach." She unconsciously clasped his arm again with her free hand. "I saw him and he saw me at the exact same time."

"Did I notice something different about him?" Castle asked aloud. Soft gasps announced his breathing, sharp little tugs of oxygen. The detective fell into a similar pattern, felt her heartbeat quickening. "I don't know how. It was dark. The bodies were buried. How could I just know? But he saw me," her companion continued, speaking more quickly as well now, "and out of the sand he came—like some crazed jack in the box sprung from his cube. He didn't say anything. Me neither. We just looked and then we acted. And I ran," he gasped softly, blue eyes glazed and sightless upon the ocean. "Forgot about my bike, or the car, or anything. I wish I'd _said _something," he growled, clenching his hands into fists. Kate wasn't even aware enough to wince from the pressure of his grip. "I didn't even ask about Laura. Gone into her sandy tomb. I didn't—" he jerked, shoulders heaving with a spasm of perfectly soundless grief. A funneled version of his baritone escaped, tight and laced with emotion. "I didn't even _think_ about her, Katie." Hearing that version of her name at such a time ripped into her heart like a goddamn meat hook. She flinched hard, felt droplets of wetness graze her cheeks on the way to the sand. The writer's eyes were glossed with a similar sheen, but no tears fell, as if they weren't enough to do the job. "I didn't even call out for her.

"I don't…remember," her partner continued hesitantly, more rasped. "It's a blur. Suddenly we were back near the lighthouse, running around the base of it." Castle's brow furrowed. "What was I doing there? I wish I'd… But that's where we were, and I remember running, and thinking that I would never see home again. Never see Mom again. I was trapped in some bizarre loop where Llewellyn and I were going to be stuck forever. Just…circling that red and white tower too winded to call for help, or Mom, or Laura. I don't—I don't know why I thought that."

Kate sniffed wetly, quietly, dabbed at her nose with her sleeve.

Castle's attention shifted from the ocean to her. A small, humorless smile graced the contours of his mouth. The author reached into his inner coat pocket with his free hand and withdrew a white handkerchief. _Of course you would have one._ He pressed lightly at her cheeks with one silken corner, ascended a bit to graze the skin under her eyes. Then he proffered it mutely for her acceptance.

Kate didn't have the words, just grasped it and leaned in until her head bumped lightly into his chest. The firmness of his arms rising to surround her was so…good. But she did it for him, wanting something firm and fixed to anchor him while being tossed along the harrowing current of recollection.

"He caught me. I'm honestly not sure how long it took—maybe just a couple laps. 'Don't be afraid, Richie.' That's what he said. 'Don't be afraid. Laura's waiting for you. We're all born in blood, Richie—our mama's blood. Why wouldn't we leave this world just as drenched in it?'" He shivered against her and she quaked too in pure sympathy. "I saw him, Kate. But not the young man I'd assumed to know. He was gone as if he'd never been." Silence stretched itself out between them. Part of her didn't want it to end. "There wasn't time to say anything even if I could have thought of the words. He threw me over the edge of the hill. It's was a steeper slope back then, and he was strong. I landed on the rocks all the way at the bottom. I hit my head and..."

Kate eased back fractionally while remaining in the corral of his arms, eye-to-eye but for the height discrepancy. She reached up with one hand to trace the scar over his left eyebrow. "Here."

Castle blinked, staring blankly before finally asking, "How did you know?"

"I asked Lanie about it once." There was no reason to blush about her interest on the matter now. "She said it looked like the result of impact trauma."

"Perceptive as usual," he agreed succinctly.

"Jesus," she whispered. The detective curled a hand at the base of his skull and pulled him down, kissed the lasting stamp of old violence. He withdrew too soon for her liking to match stares again. She said, "But here you are. Did Llewellyn make a mistake, or not have the heart to finish it?"

Castle's jaw shifted, but he failed to reply.

"You don't remember?"

"I do. I remember it all very well from that point forward. I didn't black out from the fall. I just…floated out to sea. I could see him standing there at the top of the hill, watching me go."

Kate tilted her head and looked to the shore at her right. "The waves didn't—

"Smash me on the rocks? Maybe at first…I'm not sure. But it's deep water around this little notch of the island—the current pulls with more insistence. That's why you aren't seeing any driftwood or the like. Go a few hundred yards in either direction from here and it's another matter."

She frowned and looked back to him. "I don't understand. Wasn't that a lucky break for you?"

Castle moistened his lips in consideration, seeming hesitant before continuing. "It was, but it shouldn't have been. That's why he didn't come down to finish it. I should've been carried halfway around the island, long drowned by the time the current spilled me onto the shores along the southern beaches. He knew that."

"Why..." she stopped, couldn't finish it.

He did. "Why wasn't I? I don't know. None of the local guys could explain it either, and they live half their lives on the water."

The world kept moving, but the woman was very still in his arms. "And you were awake for it all?"

Richard nodded, his eyes straying hers. From an angled perspective she could see a resurfacing gleam in his gaze. It made her fingers curl into his coat at his back. "I can't…I don't want to talk about that part. I'm sorry. I just can't."

"Drifting was worse than…the stuff before?"

"Before I was driven by raw instinct. I drifted for hours. There was so much," he paused, leaving the sentence undone. Blue eyes shifted to similar, deeper hued ocean. "There's nothing out there, Kate. Nothing but time. I spent it thinking about Laura—what I should've done differently. About surviving Llewellyn only to die in the sea where no one would ever find me. No one would ever know what happened to her."

"Oh, Castle," she breathed. He'd been a boy, violently stripped of innocence. No one should become aware of mortality in such a fashion.

"Don't," he warned grimly, but without the same intensity as earlier. "For my part, this is why I've kept it to myself. People looked at me differently afterwards. I hate that look, Beckett. I didn't need their pity then, and I don't need yours now."

"Hush," she soothed. "It's not pity. Sympathy. Empathy. They're different, Rick. You know that better than most." Her partner just stared, frowning. Doubt was written into his tense upper half, but so was the longing to believe her. "You may not see it," the woman continued earnestly, "but building the life you have—atop something as horrible as that night? You're one of the least pitiable people I've ever met."

"I want to believe you."

"'Cause you're smarter than you look."

He lifted his eyebrows somewhat. "You're picking on me? Now? Maybe you could use a _little _pity."

"No," Kate replied quietly, but firmly. His tickle of humor couldn't dissuade the pervasive chill which threatened her core. "I can't think of you in that context—of pity. If I let that happen, I wouldn't know how to reconcile you with the man I agreed to marry. It's already…hard." There arose a glimmer of his original fear. "I'll deal with it," she assured him immediately, sternly. "And you'll give me time to do that."

"And now you're bossing me around?"

"Why would I stop?" she hummed with an uncertain smile. "You're less familiar now. Heavier than I thought. But you're not different. I was afraid you would turn out to be—that everything else was just an act to keep people from really looking at you."

"Not quite. Sorry. I'm just as likely to fixate on your ass when you're filling out the murder board."

"Good," she blurted, but paused, blinking uncertainly.

A brief chuckled hummed in his throat.

"Good," Beckett repeated with an arching eyebrow. "But don't advertise it for Christ's sake."

"I remain the very soul of discretion."

Kate rolled her hazel eyes, but smiled somewhat. She gladly pressed into him when his lips touched at her forehead in a kiss. Both hands lifted upon his back, tracing nonsensical patterns. At length she stated, "I love you, damn it." Her grip tightens into a squeeze. "Who you are right now."

Her partner sighed with a hint of the peppermint candy that had arrived with their check at the diner earlier.

_Was that really only a couple hours ago?_

Castle drew back somewhat, skimmed a few rebellious curls at her brow in order to slide them behind her ear. The emotional toil exacted by their conversation is evident in the subtle deepening of lines about his eyes and mouth. He's still pale—that's likely just as much from the cold by now. Blue eyes still seem a shade or three darker than normal—that's not. "Let me take you home, Kate. There's nothing more for us here."


	6. Miles of Musing

Beckett drives them home. Not because her partner can't, but because there is nothing about anything he has revealed that she can spare him from. Likewise, she cannot undo not having asked about it sooner.

Such helplessness and shame haven't dogged her with such vigor since his number one fan dotted the 'I' on his Kevlar vest with a bullet. Castle might not have taken part in that case if she hadn't pushed him to do so. He hadn't wanted to tease her with being part of the scene when she couldn't actually work it with the rest of the precinct. Oh, he'd never said as much. There was no need. At the time she had been hungry for even a taste of the purpose and fulfillment that had been denied her by the Mayor's hiring freeze. And he'd been shot as a result of that choice.

They didn't talk about it. She because it hurt, he because to even address the matter would lend more credence than it deserves. The variables did not support her guilt. Gates would have called again. She would have explained the situation over the phone and Castle wouldn't have been able to say no after that. Not with hostages at stake; certainly not when including a nine-year-old girl. That hadn't made her feel better at the time. It still didn't.

Similarly, having once possessed seemingly good reasons for not looking too closely into Castle or his past did not excuse only now learning the terrible truths hidden therein. How many crime-scenes has she approached over the years, noticing as she did so how the rest of the world seemed content to obliviously go on about its business? How many interviews had revealed peripheral individuals hoarding the truth or the ability to have possibly prevented a murder who didn't because they hadn't cared, or weren't brave enough?

Turmoil is present within her. She is driving because she needs the control it alludes to. Yet this strife does not consume her. It is not allowed.

_Because, naughty girl, this is not about just you anymore_.

The sun shines on, uncaring and unheeding. Earth keeps turning. Several more inhabitants of the hamlet are visible in cars or walking huddled along the sidewalks—the ordinary bustle of everyday life. It is like steel wool upon her perceptions, made all the more sensitive from a scrape with horror.

"What happened to him?" she finally asks. "To Llewellyn." Part of her needs to know. Another part just wants to hear the other's voice, further proof that he is with her amidst this somewhat surreal day.

Castle's left hand is entwined with her right upon the console between them, both their pairs of gloves forsaken. One exploring digit slides along the web of skin between her index finger and thumb. "I wasn't the definition of a reliable witness. Frank Autry, the deputy in charge of the local substation at the time, was kind of a friend of the family. I suppose a lot of people could've said the same about the man. Uh, anyway…believe it or not there was a time I was known for _not_ making up stories. Mine was a very backwards mental development, I know." Beckett's lips purse in reply, but lack mirth. "I don't remember the conversation, but whatever I said was enough to send him and two more of his men looking for Llewellyn. They found him at the lake. He worked there during the summers as a life-guard."

Neither of them chooses to comment on the irony. It hangs in the sedan for a long, stifling moment. So does the subject preceding it: his time alone and adrift upon the ocean. Kate doesn't have it in her to push him on that issue. He asked for the space. She's relented—for better reasons this time, and only for now.

"I can almost see him," Beckett mused aloud. "I bet he acted like it was just another day."

"Yes," her partner replied quietly. Silence joined them again for another mile or so. Then he continued, "In the end he didn't deny what he'd done, never made a bid to escape justice. The court ruled he wasn't mentally fit to stand trial. He's been under state care since then. I presume that's still the case."

"Wow," Kate issued succinctly. It was a jaded expression of disappointment with the conclusion.

"I know, right? But remember: this was 1974. Hinckley hadn't even heard of Jodie Foster yet. The insanity defense wasn't unheard of, but it was even rarer than it is today. Back then the burden of proof for mental disease or defect was on the prosecution." The author moistened his lips and shifted somewhat restlessly in his seat. "I'm not sure it would have mattered either way. No one argued the decision, not even the families of the victims. Once he stopped trying to hide the truth from us it was obvious to everyone that Llewellyn was…broken."

"Broken," she scoffs quietly. "He's a fucking psychopath."

"I think they use 'sociopath' for him, though I guess that depends on who you ask. That night at the point I would've agreed with the former diagnosis. The things he said…he seemed unhinged in a way I still can't accurately describe. But it was his exceptional intelligence that set him apart, and a chilling absence of empathy which made him a monster. Transcripts from the trial read like something out of a horror story. Llewellyn always knew the consequences of his lies and the violence at the end. It just didn't matter. He never claimed to be superior—he wasn't a narcissist. He chose to hunt us because he _could_, first one way and then another. It wasn't wrong to his mind. No more wrong than when a cat toys with its prey before consuming it."

"Jesus," she whispered.

"That was the comparison he used in court."

"Yeah, well…I'm a dog person and proud of it."

Castle smiles briefly, nodding in mute agreement.

Kate allowed the conversation to lull. She didn't like hearing him talk about Llewellyn. An unsettling quiescence infused his voice, a subtle yielding of its standard depths in favor of a whispered, almost imperceptible yearning. Subtle, yes, but in the way that heat from a doorknob was indicative of a raging inferno on the other side. She knows the signs because a similar conflagration exists within her. It is no small part of what has always bound them to one another: macabre fascination. They both need to know the stories—the _why_ of it all. That bond has shifted and transformed, but always endured. It existed well before they were proposed husband and wife or even detective and consultant. Back when the connection was merely between an author and his devoted reader.

But Kate loves him now. She wants more for Rick than a lifetime spent exploring darkness. It's not that he can't handle it. It's that she doesn't want him to. She took an oath to carry the shield and protect New York City. He's poised to make a similar commitment to her, but that is not the same thing. One does not demand the other.

_It's our quintessential conundrum—wanting to protect each other from ourselves._

"Have you ever visited him?" She regretted the question immediately.

Her companion winced slightly, but his tone didn't indicate any animosity towards her for asking. "No. It's never crossed my mind as anything more than a passing thought. What would be the point?"

"I…I guess I don't know. Some form of conclusion maybe, if possible."

Rick's gaze seemed to bore right through her. "You know as well as anyone: there's no sense of closure to be gleaned from a man who harbors no regrets." He looks away again, as if lending her privacy while she struggles to contain and conceal the impact of his words. "If some form of peace exists to be had, it waits to be discovered elsewhere. That being said," he added thoughtfully, "my answer would probably be different if it hadn't been for Laura. I'm not sure how to explain that better. Whatever she gave me at the time… Well, her legacy has endured long past a sadly brief lifespan."

Beckett didn't know what to say, what to offer that wouldn't come back at her in kind, and so made no reply. Once again she found herself brimming over with the impossible desire to have been there for him during that period of his life. The detective also yearned deeply for a glimpse of his former self, the carefree and life-loving Richard Rodgers. He is capable of that presently, of course, but now she knows it is not solely a viable trait of his personality. Castle also wields it as a proactive self-defense mechanism to keep people from seeing what he doesn't wish to be known.

_It kinda figures though, that an author of mysteries would turn out to be shrouded in them._

"If you get any heavier," her partner warned knowingly, "you're going to fall through the floorboards." The sideways look he was giving her only reinforced the words. He rightly suspected she was questioning him again. That was actually a curiously comforting detail. The driver wanted him to know she was unsettled, but it wasn't something she would be comfortable putting into words—probably the wrong ones.

"I warned you to stop feeding me so much," she quipped, only somewhat forcing the humor.

"You have to talk to me, Kate. I understand it might not be easy, but trust me: this is not something you want to leave to my imagination." There was that look again—the one that reminded her of Royce. A sad and certain expectation of the inevitable: in this case for her to leave him the way so many other people in his life had.

_Fat chance, babe._

"I'm still processing," Beckett informed him. "It's a lot to take in. Don't rush me." Hearing her commanding tone elicits a hesitant smile in her partner's stern countenance. "You know, I just realized there's a glaring omission in everything you've told me so far."

"The piano," Rick stated evenly.

Kate shifted in her seat, rattled by his intuition. _Never gonna get used to that. _"Yeah. That's what started all of this, but you haven't mentioned where it fits."

Castle sighed quietly, but his only answer was to face the road ahead as she turned onto his private road. It was paved, wide enough for two vehicles, and wound gently for a few hundred yards before the woods gave way to the open landscape upon which his beach house had been constructed.

"Home sweet home away from home," she breathes, which has become a ritual of sorts upon their arrival here.

"Oh good—you remembered to pack some poor grammar," he replied, which he usually did.

"I only wish it were summer." Her teeth chattered softly when she relaxed the muscles in her jaw. "You have the keys, right? 'Cause by this point my nipples could probably serve as makeshift glass cutters if we need to break in."

His expression sagged briefly in surprise, but quickly lit with barely contained amusement. "I don't believe you," he simpered. "Show me."

"No way," Beckett grumbles, sheltering her breasts with her hands, arms crossed defensively. "You know me," she accuses mildly. "I don't draw my weapons unless I'm prepared to use 'em."

They rose from the car as their repartee continued, which was quickly becoming less about distracting one another from their woes and gaining genuine humor and affection. Maybe she should be pressing him more aggressively for answers—certainly she had learned her lesson there. But it was so goddamn good to see him relinquish the burdens of the past and simply exist with her in a lighter present. Time seemed to be on their side for once. They had the whole weekend ahead. It was true what he'd said earlier: somehow she was able to unwittingly pull him away from all of that. Her fears about how he's different are not unfounded. _But look how wonderfully you remain the same_. This is no façade—no wall by which he keeps her at a distance. This is him lured out from behind those barriers by the desire to come play with her.

It is a deeply humbling thought, not an unpleasant ache and weight upon her heart.

"What's mine is yours, and yours mine," Castle reminded her, circling a finger in the air to indicate her chest.

"Oh yes," Beckett encouraged throatily with a dramatized version of an ecstatic eye-roll, "seduce me with your bastardizations of common law."

"No," he chided mildly. "I'm merely stating a happy truth. It's called sharing."

"Sharing," she repeated slowly, as if the word were utterly alien.

Blue eyes seemed to glimmer with unspoken laughter. "All the cool kids are doing it."

Kate set her features to broadcast consideration of his reply as they came together before the hood of his car. "Alas," she chirped at length, "I'm sworn to give myself only to someone who can defeat me in battle."

"Like Red Sonja," he gasped and leaned to one side as if likely to swoon. "God she was hot."

"Castle…" she began warningly.

"The way she handled that sword," he groaned blissfully. "So blatantly, yet splendidly phallic."

Beckett just glared.

"And her ultimate objective?" the author continued unabated. "To be the bearer of the Creator's glowing orb? I mean really. Damn." He slowed his speech to fully punctuate the words, "They have her…pursuing…balls. Well, just one really, but still. That's soooo shameless. Better still, her driving goal is to destroy it! She's literally a scantily clad, sword-waving, ball-buster. As a fellow writer, I'm horribly drawn to admiration for such bald contempt even as I despise it for a complete lack of subtlety." Despite the critique her fiancé was giddy with approval. "Whoever wrote that story clearly experienced a deeply conflicting relationship."

"One can only imagine what _that_ feels like," Beckett jabbed with a subtle lift of her eyebrows.

"Which part?" he parried with his trademark smirk. "So far the parallels are downright staggering."

Hazel eyes enlivened by the sun dipped pointedly between their bodies. Her hands lifted to his waist, playing at the edges of his unfastened coat. "Are you asking to see my sword play, Rick?"

He sniffed, lifted his chin. "I'm willing to settle for a glimpse of your glass-cutters. _I'm_ a gentleman."

"Wow," she blurted. "I…I can't think of a reply that doesn't involve farting noises."

Castle tipped his head back some, laughing aloud. "Oh goodness," he breathed at length, still quivering lightly. "You are _such_ a lady."

"Fuck yeah. I got class comin' outta my ass."

"You're a poet who doesn't know it," he added, less humored, more affectionate. By his expression and body-language she could tell her lover was only then realizing that they were having fun together. Today of all days. "My own walking, talking stick-woman," he declared as his smile slowly faded. The author reeled her in by her coat until the lines of their lower halves merged sublimely.

"Callin' me skinny?" she teased, but moistened her lips in mute invitation to his.

Attentive audience the man was; he needed no further prompting. The subtle shadow imposed by his height eclipses the sun as they ease in. An undercurrent of pleased anticipation quivers in her blood to feel the warmth of his breath, to be suffused by familiar scents and foreknowledge of the intimate texture of the oncoming kiss. All the details stood out to her at that moment, raw and affecting. They wound into her senses and straight down through her body to coil in her middle, destined to become an aroused blend of warmth and moisture.

Yet a jarring interruption ground them to a halt with a scant centimeter to spare between their mouths, a third voice which arose from close by. "Well, I see Valentine's Day weekend is off to a fine start here."

They turn in surprised unison to see Martha Rodgers standing in the opened doorway.


	7. An Invitation to Revelation

The difference between them is that Beckett stays surprised. Castle relinquishes the expression as if he'd been expecting her. "Mother," he says, and the word is both welcome and mild rebuke. Trust progeny to fit that contrasting combination into a single utterance. "Another fine block," he expels under his breath. It takes a moment to recall their previous conversation in the car about getting caught getting lucky.

_Heh._

No. Not funny. Her body clings with doomed hopefulness to the expectation of satisfaction stirred to life by their interrupted kiss. When Rick eases apart to approach the actress, Kate lingers behind in order to glare at her privately, mostly joking. Martha purses her lips and lifts her eyebrows in mute apology. She doesn't smile though, ruefully or otherwise, and that lack says it all: she's here by some serious design.

Castle clearly senses the grave air about their guest, because he snatches her into a hug. Martha grunts softly in surprise, dangling awkwardly off balance in her red flats. Humor and affection make cameo appearances upon the older woman's face before she drums her son's shoulders with her small fists. "For heaven's sake Richard," she rebukes unconvincingly. "This coat is mink, and you're all damp. What _have_ you been doing?"

"Kate fell," the man accuses with a furtive backward glance. _For me_, he seems to add mentally, because there's a clever little smirk on his face. "Near me," her partner adds innocently, cinching her suspicions by the deviation. He thinks he's pretty funny. He's right, but that's a secret.

"It's winter," Martha replies crisply in Kate's defense. "Honestly. Your timing with these shenanigans."

_There you go_, the detective notes soberly, _she knows why he brought me here._

The diva's lightly toned reproving continues, "Next time you feel like unburdening yourself: wait for summer." Words are just noise. The true story lay in her hands, which squeeze Castle's shoulders to keep him close when he steps back a pace. They worry their way down his biceps and grasp again as if testing his solidity. Slightly widened eyes wander his upper half as though seeking injuries. "You could've at least held off until you'd come by and unloaded your belongings."

"She asked," Rick answers succinctly as Kate nears the pair. "And you did tell me once not to coddle her."

"I did," his mother concedes thoughtfully. "Since when do you listen?"

His smile, though minimal, is fondly indulgent of the poking and prodding. Cracks are evident in his armor today, but he's not crumbling under the weight of all this. The resolve with which he continues to carry himself is…well… It's a lot of things, but at the moment Kate is simply proud. In the face of great adversity, a quintessential hallmark of strength lies not in the ability to deny emotions, nor hide from them, but to endure without being ruled by them or calling undue attention to oneself. Anyone can suffer. Not everyone is willing to do so cleanly or privately. It makes her love the author more even as she aches all the more to help ease his burden.

Sex won't accomplish that, but their special brand of intimacy would be a sublime place to start. It's what makes her the more…_hmm_…carnally aggressive of the two. The way they are together when the words all cease and touch begins—vocal communication has nothing on it.

"I didn't give 'im much wiggle room," the detective offers at length. She slides an arm around Castle's waist beneath his coat. His warm length and breadth are reassuring in proportion and solidity. "But I didn't know what I was asking for," she adds. "And I didn't know to expect company. I wish you'd called. You could've ridden out here with us."

"No, no, darling," Martha replies with a wan smile. Weariness is evident within her as she pulls the full length mink coat closer about her body. "This is your weekend, and I'll be leaving you to it soon enough. I had errands to tend to this morning, and more waiting for my return this evening."

"You didn't drive yourself," Castle issues, frowning, but his tone makes it a question.

"On these roads? No. I used a car service."

"Good. We hit several bad patches."

Now that her attention was called to the matter Kate's eyes skim the recent sets of tire tracks in the snow. One of them is broad enough to be a truck, or a large SUV. They terminate at the garage door. "Hold on. There're two sets of tracks here. I mean three including Rick's car."

Martha opened her mouth to explain, but stalled.

"We have company?"

"See what I mean?" Rick grumbled to his mother, but good-naturedly. "She doesn't miss a trick." His hand at Kate's back pressed a soothing circle between her shoulder-blades. "Why don't you two go inside? I'll grab our things."

_More surprises? _She's more leery of the not knowing than the truths that have unfolded. "Wait. What's going on?"

Castle studied her for a silent beat and then looked somewhat imploringly to his mother.

"I made him promise to wait for me, Katherine. If he was so determined to tell you what happened—"

"Whoa," Kate blurted. The other woman's arm had snuck through her left one coaxingly, but it lifted to a wary, lighter touch in response to her sudden rigidity. "_If? _You don't think he should've?"

"Kate," Rick began gently, but that was all he managed before being interrupted by his mother.

"Richard. Let us do this. You do that." The actress clasped the detective's wrist lightly, nodding towards the front door. The latter reluctantly acquiesced to being led. A shiver of relief invades her as they leave behind the cold to be swallowed up in the foyer's warmth. "I don't know which choice is right," Martha shares. There isn't even a trace of apology for the implied duplicity. "You've been good for each other, but it's been hell getting here, Katherine. That's not to blame you," she inserted when Kate's mouth opened to protest. "It is what it is, dear. I've seen him flounder in ways I hardly thought him capable of as you two…stumbled around one another like drunkards. He's been hurt enough." Martha patted her arm before relinquishing her entirely. "I know you have too. So, yes, I would've had him keep this secret rather than risk either of you anymore pain. Maybe that's wrong. But there's no maybe about the destructive force of Llewellyn Matthews. That man is poison. Every time—every _single_ time—someone has gotten close to what happened to my son he's ended up hurt as a result."

"He said he'd never told anyone else," Kate murmurs as they begin shedding their layers by the coat stand.

Martha wears a red dress beneath the coat, knee-length and elegantly simple in design, but with a contrastingly loud pattern in black which suits the woman's bold style. "I don't know that he ever has," she confirms. "Not willingly that is. I never knew because I didn't ask. God I wish I had now, but… I only know what I've seen in him a handful of times. It's the same look about him I see today. The last time was with a young woman he was seeing in college. I know he didn't tell her, but somehow she found out. Something he said must have piqued her curiosity. That...that night and its aftermath were and remain intentionally quiet pieces of history, but it's still a matter of public record. The story is there if you know where to look. And to be fair to the girl," Martha almost smiled, but it was a pained one, "she was undeniably determined to get answers. She cared about him very much."

_Kyra Blaine_. It had to be. Castle never said why they hadn't worked, only that she'd left for England and he'd stayed behind.

Beckett rubs the sleeves of her shirt, chilled by the similarities at work. By contrast to Kyra, she'd asked Rick for time to process. Not space. Never again with space. But ten years ago she probably would have. "Neither of us are kids anymore, Martha. We've both seen and done enough to know that life doesn't wait for us to feel secure before taking a risk." She paused, took a steadying breath. "I've spent the better portion of mine wading through cases like what happened to him. And not to compare tragedies, but I've got a past all my own."

"I know you do," Martha agreed with quiet sympathy. "I don't expect you to approve of my dithering about him opening up to you. He's my son; that's all there is to it. If it's a choice between satisfying your curiosity and keeping a secret that spares him more pain—

Beckett stiffens. Her outrage is silent, but damn…it feels as though its seething tendrils crawl down deep into the house beneath her feet and into the very bones of the world. She's rooted in place by it.

"N-no," Martha stammers quickly. "I don't mean _idle_ curiosity, darling. I just meant—

"Stop," Kate snaps, not coldly, but commandingly. It vexes her, this seeming inability in other people to grasp what she and her fiancé have created together. No one seems to get how deeply it runs or how irrevocably they're bound. How can they not see? And how does she explain? Two halves of the same whole; that's such a tired and tame description. "If you cut yourself deeply," she proposes, "but didn't know how it happened—you'd ask why."

The other nods in reply. Her expression is supportive of some understanding.

Yet the detective instinctively knows that the message is lost on her. The fundamental concept of being in love translates, of course, but the fathomless leagues of its veracity aren't something that can be imagined or explained. You've either felt that profound connection with another person or you haven't. It's the thought that Martha hasn't which eases the sting of her presumption. _You've had motherhood. That's a different kind of love, but just as special._ Kate sighed mutely and touched the woman's shoulder in mute encouragement for her to continue. "I don't approve, but I can appreciate you wanting to look out for him like that. Of course I can."

"I wish I could claim my motives were pure. I feel like they were at the time. But part of me also wishes it had stayed a secret for my benefit." A fleeting glimpse of embarrassment crept into Martha's features via hints of crimson. Yet she lifted her chin in a display of resolve to convey the truth. "It's been nice having another woman around. I didn't want you to think less of me."

"Oh, Martha," Beckett issued softly. "I don't. Christ. I can't imagine what it was like for you. Or him."

A strange frown eclipsed the other emotions in the older woman's features. "What has he told you?"

The door was left slightly ajar in anticipation of Rick's entrance. Through it the closing of the car doors and trunk are audible. Kate's attention shifts to the windowless portal and then back to her companion. "He told me a little about Laura. And the…beach. That night with Llewellyn."

By some mutual unspoken signal they drift back from the doorway seconds before the man himself enters. His cheeks are rosy from exertion. They brought two suitcases each and he's stubbornly elected to bring them all in at once. "I've got it," he declares when his partner begins to approach.

There's some appeal in the man's physical capability as he hedges his way towards the stairs, but it's an awkward amble due to the cumbersome nature of the burdens. So it's kinda funny too. She pinches his butt before he escapes, prompting a yelp of surprise.

Martha is smiling when the detective turns back to her and their conversation. It's a somewhat melancholy one though, and that bothers the younger.

"He's going to be fine," Kate declares coolly and quietly, crossing her arms. "He's strong. Far more so than the piece of shit who tried to kill him." Her tone is seamlessly assertive. She's not just saying the words. "And believe it or not, Martha, so am I. He's here now. With us. That's what matters to me. I would never spoil that to indulge some childish need to judge you for something that happened ages ago."

Martha's gaze shifted to her. It lingered. An unsettling gleam of knowledge resided there. So did silence. It stretched out long enough to send a shivering crack of uncertainty across the otherwise seamless surface of Beckett's resolve. "You say that because you don't understand what that night cost him. When you do, I promise…" she leaned in and grasped the detective's hands with disquieting strength, "…you'll reconsider those words."

* * *

Beckett enters the master bedroom in something of a daze. Martha's words still ring in her ears, and the certainty with which they'd been delivered has made a home for itself in her breast. It sits heavy and cold, a crouched and lethal creature of dread. The sight of her fiancé standing before their opened luggage tending to their belongings does not dispel it. It merely quiets the beast's rumblings to a low murmur.

"You don't always fix things," Kate says as she approaches. "But you sure make them feel less broken."

"Hmm?"

"I like that—love it," she clarifies. "I don't want some cure-all. I just need someone to endure with."

"I set aside a change of clothes for you," he says with a sideways tilt of his head.

Beckett frowns briefly at his lack of reaction to her revelation. It's important to her, and the words don't often emerge so readily. But she scrunches her lips firmly around a bottled up grin to note what he's indicated her to wear: solely a pair of white panties with a big yellow smiley face across the ass. "Yeah," she comments, "that's exactly what I'm talking about. I love that."

"You don't need curing," he declares with wonderfully firm conviction.

Kate snakes an arm around him, soothes a circle against his chest. "Neither do you."

Silence joins them for a time, a welcome addition this time.

A few minutes later Castle strokes her forearm and says, "Somehow I managed to convince myself this would be a fine romantic gesture." He nods in unspoken encouragement to feel her press more snugly against his back. "Like your drawer. I wanted to make a space for you in me—in all these lightless places I've kept closed off." He pauses in the act of slipping one of her blouses onto a hanger, brings it close enough to breathe in the scents and lightly brush the fabric across his lips. "It felt right as a plot within my mind." The item is laid neatly atop a pile of similar articles. "Now I'm wondering if I should've gone with that hot pink Glock 26 I saw online."

A quiver of amusement wiggles through her upper half. Kate's hand slides down his front. She slips under his shirt and combs her nails lightly through the fine-spun hairs of his treasure trail. "Keep the subcompact," she drips into his ear, and glides smoothly beneath the waist of his slacks. "Gimme something full-sized." From the side she can see one blue eye half close and roll back into a pleased crescent of white. The satiny heat of him in her grasp; the slow acquisition of length and girth coaxed to life by her influence—it's almost painfully erotic. A dull awareness of emptiness is unfurling in her belly along with his expansion, one demanding to be filled by the other. Amazing, how quickly and completely the need takes over.

"We have guests," he bemoans.

"I don't give a shit," she husks, and it's the truth. This is their struggle. They don't owe anyone an explanation or apology for how they choose to deal with it. The fingers of her free hand comb into his hair, clenching gently but firmly at the base of his head. Kate draws him back, though he playfully resists as he always does. "You've been wonderful today, more than deserving of a respite. Let it keep one more hour." Her mouth seals to his exposed throat. Her nose presses into the stony ledge of his jaw.

"Wait," he says breathily. The word tumbles for meaning in her brain. Keeps tumbling. In the meantime her lips open to allow a gliding stroke of her tongue. His pulse throbs rhythmically beneath it like a caged thing excited by her visit. "Kate, stop," he says more firmly. She's left blinking and befuddled as he pulls gently away and strides to the foot of the bed. Ragged breathing spills out audibly. His chest is home to swells and contractions that belie a matching desire to escape with her.

"What…why?" She's not overly stung by the rejection, more mystified.

There's a flash of regret for another lost moment in his features, but also things less apparent. Tautness in his brow and the clenching of his jaw are faint descriptions of an underlying sorrow. The source is indeterminable. Maybe it's for himself—maybe even on her behalf. "I can't…stop and go with this now. Not now."

"You need it done."

Relief washes over him to know she understands. "Precisely. Please." There's an understated tremor of desperation on the second word, and that detail seems to morph her desire back into a grander form of love. "The guest downstairs right now—that'll be one of the people I mentioned earlier when I said this wasn't just my story to tell. In a very real way they're all victims too."

_They are, but you're not_. That's what he seems to think, what he'd like everyone to believe.

"I understand."

"No," he replies softly. "You don't. And I can't take the time to explain it better right now. You'll just have to see for yourself." He moistens his lips, considering before continuing, "It won't be easy."

"Castle, I'm not here to make this harder for you."

"That's just it," he replies sharply, drawing her eyebrows into a surprised arch. "You're here for _me_." His features eased and his tone softened. "And I'm grateful. I love you for that, Kate. And maybe you don't actually need to hear this, but… I need my partner right now more than I need my fiancée."

Beckett was silent. She frowned into his concerned visage, mystified by the request.

"Do you understand what I'm asking?"

"No," she replies. "But you look like we're about to storm a murder suspect's residence. I thought—" She stopped, bristling with sudden suspicion. "Who's waiting for us down there?"

"John Autry."

"That's—who? You said that name before—the sheriff when you were a kid."

"The deputy sheriff, Frank," Castle confirmed. "His son John has the office now. He's here to talk, but also to take you and mother to a few places here in town." He pauses to moisten his lips again. "To meet the others."

The stone of his reply hits the surface of her grim pool of expectations and the ripples manifest in a tremor that exists more in her mind than her body. "You're warning me, trying to prepare me." The confirmation in his visage only adds to her sudden anxiety. "You said everyone knows what Llewellyn is. That's what you told me, Castle."

"Everyone knows." The timbre of his voice feels deeper than usual again, and every other sound less distinct by comparison. "Not everyone accepts. His mother, Lydia…"

"Then I don't want to talk to her! You can't seriously expect me to."

"I do," he confirms with a low, simmering anger. "I expect you to get both sides of the story—the same way you always have. That's what you do, detective."

Kate flinches somewhat to hear him address her in that fashion. "That's my job," she rebukes with a similar glower. "You are not."

"I'm hard work though." She teeters on the verge of smiling, but manages to refuse the urge. Castle does, briefly, but it lacks joy. He turns back to his task of unpacking while continuing, "Godfrey—Lydia's husband—accepts the truth. He knows what his son really is. He doesn't say it, for her sake, but he knows. Look, I understand this seems crazy to you—

"It is!"

"—but they don't have anyone to talk about this with," he soldiers on firmly. "Don't you see?" Something about him forestalls another immediate denial. "They just live with it—this gaping black hole in their lives. The only other people who can talk about it choose not to. I'm sorry to say: that's long included me. No one wants to remember—not even the good memories. I couldn't…do this…" His brow furrows with the struggle to find the proper words. "I can't talk about it with you like this without trying to include them. It gives me no peace to confront the past, but somehow it still feels like that's a possible outcome. There's this illusion of progress to hear the words being spoken aloud after all this time. It isn't real. I know better. Talking about what happened changes nothing!" He claims a calming breath while gazing at their belongings upon the bed, unaware or unwilling to witness her aggrieved expression on his behalf. "But if there's even the slimmest chance that it _could _offer peace, I want them to have it too."

"Castle," Beckett says, more sighs the name. "It's not up to you to fix them anymore than it is with me. We don't get to choose if or when other people are ready to heal."

"I know," her partner growls as he wrestles one of his shirts onto a hanger. "Logically, I know that."

"But you want to try anyway," Kate inserts knowingly. "I'm not condemning your intentions, Rick. It's very sweet—uhn," she grunts with frustration. "More than just sweet. You know what I mean." He half turns to look at her. She flounders briefly. Like him, not knowing how to voice her misgivings. The words spill out quite unexpectedly as he's gazing into her. "I just don't want you to be disappointed. You don't need that on top of everything else. You know me—how I feel about victims. But my priority right now is you. I'm sorry for the rest of them, but I have to deal with us first."

Castle turns slowly to fully face her again. The detective clenches her abdominal muscles and jaw, actually bracing herself as the man eases closer. Still, the feel of his fingers alighting upon her middle creates an explosion of want. It burns though her veins as the tips of his digits graze to one side in a lingering grasp of her waist.

He somehow perceives her internal response this time, and seems surprised. "Goodness, Kate," he issues in hushed tones. "Stop that."

A single note of laughter rushes out of her, a clip of lilting sound in the otherwise quiet room. She's amused, aroused, and neither are invited or even welcome guests. "Shut up," she grumbles, embarrassed. "I know it's terrible, damn it. But it's just—

"So good," he inserts knowingly. Christ. Looking at her like that does nothing to dissuade the insistence of her body's irrational response. "And I want it," he assures, his voice deep and rich. "To disappear into you." _Oh. God. Shush!_ "I know that together we could make all of this go away for a while."

Kate grunts unintelligibly before a strained growl of her voice emerges, "Don't fuck with me, Castle."

Blue eyes open wider as he leans upright. He grins.

"Oh," she mourns aloud, plops a hand over her face. "I hate my brain. And it hates me."

Rick chuckles and swallows her in his arms. It is as real for the scent of him, achingly familiar and reliable, as it is for the appeasing textures pressed to her body. She burrows her face into the curve of his neck and shoulder, inhales deeply. They linger for a minute, stealing a little more time together from its miser of a master.

"Come on," she urges at length, more reluctant than the words sound. "I can see you're not going to be dissuaded. So let's get this over with. Let's get changed."

The armor is back as he withdraws from her. But it feels different at that moment, more like she's behind the protective shell with him rather than viewing it all externally. A sad humor and a glint of irony hook one corner of his mouth into a small curve. "Were it so easy."


	8. The Calm Before the Storm

John Autry is a goddamn giant. He stands 6'6" and has to weigh in around three hundred pounds. Precious little is wasted on fat. He's dressed in his uniform, tan slacks and a brown shirt with the insignia specific to Suffolk country. Over it, he's straining the limitations of a three-quarter-length black leather jacket. Even Castle's expansive living room feels like too small a space with the deputy in it. His goatee is long and thick—_no way in hell that's regulation_. It's as black as raven's plumage and stands out all the more against the deeply tanned flesh of his shaved head. According to Castle the guy was on loan until recently to the ATF as an undercover operative in a biker gang. John didn't say which one, or how he'd managed to get involved with a federal agency. He didn't say _anything_ about it apparently, but the operation must have gone very well, because he's supervising the local sheriff substation at thirty-five, a deputy lieutenant.

That's a fast track which rivals Beckett's ascent in the NYPD.

"Nice to meet you," she told him, offering a hand.

There's a tick of unease when he absolutely swallows her appendage with one of his—she half expects to pull back something limp and crushed. He's merely firm though. He knows his strength. "Ma'am."

"You can call me Kate."

"Yes, ma'am."

She frowns lightly into his eyes in reply. They're as close to black as the human iris can get, and hooded by his eyelids to an extent that lends the man a sleepy, almost oafish appearance. But Kate knows people. She sees the unmistakable gleam of intelligence burning hotly within them. It makes her smile, and somehow she feels immediately comfortable with the intimidating man. "Try again."

John shifts where he stands and rocks his jaw side-to-side with mild discomfiture. "Kate then."

Castle beams. "Well. That's a new record to my knowledge."

"What a pushover," Martha accuses as she enters with a tray of mugs of tea. Steam trails from them like wavering banners of gossamer. "We have a few minutes yet. Might as well put something warm in our bellies."

John thanks her as he takes one. He calls her Mrs. Rodgers. The cup looks like a toy in his hands. The detective doesn't mean to stare as he takes a sip, but again her expectations assert themselves and she's waiting for him to chomp the ceramic down too, as if it were part of the unexpected treat. He doesn't.

"You're not coming with us," he says, looking to Castle. She can't tell if it's a question or not.

Rick's seeming enjoyment wavers some, but he keeps it together as he has all day. "No."

"That's best."

Beckett frowns again. "Best?" she parrots. "Maybe it is for you. Not me." Her gaze strays to the author as she says so. "I don't even know these people, Rick. I don't understand what you expect me to get out of visiting them. You're the only means I have of assigning context to whatever they might say. Without you there too…"

"Mrs. Rodgers and I can fill in most of any blanks you might have," John states evenly. "But really, I doubt you'll require help grasping what these people have to tell you." _Is that a compliment?_ Again it's hard to tell. His tone is calm, but assertive, like a man who's confident of his decision by means of careful consideration rather than empty bravado. "It's more a history lesson, remember. There never was a mystery involved."

True. The only mystery presented is Castle himself. That's why she wants to keep him close right now. And—_okay, fine_—part of the woman simply desires his company. Today of all days Kate finds their separating even for a short span of hours difficult to swallow. She doesn't like it. Not one bit.

"Gonna miss me?" her fiancé teases lightly. But his blue eyes say: _God, yes, honey—me too_.

Beckett has to rip her eyes away from him, casts them into her slowly cooling tea. "Okay," is all she says.

The room is quiet for a time. Strangely, it's not an awkward hush even with a stranger in the midst. It is the kind which precipitates any act of significant personal difficulty. No one is willing to disturb it. When the phone rings upon the end table next to Martha they all jerk in surprise. The actress lays a hand to her breast, huffs a brief, uneasy laugh as she picks up the cordless receiver.

"Hello?"

"That's probably Henry Calloway," Castle explains quietly, facing Kate. "He's the lighthouse keeper—as he was then. He's most likely the reason mother knew we'd already been there. Before today," he adds slowly and considering of his words, "I hadn't set foot there for over twenty-five years."

_Jesus..._ Beckett can only imagine the way his heart must be clenching around the words. Hers certainly is. It makes replying impossible for a few moments. She nods stiffly instead.

"Forgive me," John submits to them with seeming hesitance, "but…why now, Richard? It's been so long."

_They call you Richard here_. _They would, wouldn't they? Hard to bestow a friendly nickname on someone you can't take anything less than completely seriously._ A swift and especially deep ache of sadness assails her, because she knows how much her partner loves to laugh, how lacking in seriousness he habitually prefers to be. No one here plays with him the way people do in The City—the way she does. It probably doesn't even occur to them that he'd welcome it.

Kate knows the answer to the proposed query. She slowly lifts her left hand.

The deputy really is smart. He catches the engagement band. He doesn't say another word.

"That's good," Martha is saying on the phone as silence returns to the others. "Yes. We'll be around shortly. Thank you so much, Henry. Uh-huh. Bye-bye." The actress stands as she returns the handset to its cradle. "Okay. Henry is expecting us whenever we're ready."

John stands as well. He strikes the detective as a good man. But he's also a fittingly daunting specter of the grim places they're aimed towards this afternoon, and he's not even scantly worthy as a temporary stand-in for the one she's being asked to leave behind. Her gaze shifts to Rick as they both rise. By some unspoken signal the deputy and Martha bid Rick a murmured farewell and head to the foyer. Then it's just them. And leaving is simply intolerable.

"I don't want to go," she declares flatly, unrepentant.

The author just stares at her for a time. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other, rattled some by imagining what he's seeing without her being aware of broadcasting it. At length he closes the distance between them to claim her left hand in his. "You know, Kate, I've never for a moment assumed that you not asking about this kind of stuff sooner was due to a lack of interest. I know that it's always been a matter of time, of timing."

Uhn. God. He's killing her today. She sniffs noisily, blinks her eyes a few times quickly to dissuade any notion of moisture. "You know that, huh?" she replies with teasing, cool dubiousness. It makes him smile, which makes her do the same. She lifts her free hand to pinch his cheek. "You're so smart sometimes."

"I'm a good shot too," he says with an arching eyebrow, and lightly pinches her right nipple through her sweater.

"Ow, jeez. Nice," she concedes grudgingly. "Save some of that for later, buster. Save a lot of it." Her amusement wavers. "'Cause you bet your ass I'll be back. Nothing I'll hear out there can stop that from happening."

"I believe you."

She believes him. They kiss, and though it's a merging of comfort more than passion they linger together for long ticks of the clock. Her eyes droop lethargically as his touch ghosts her cheeks and drift back to stroke through the ponytail she's gathered her hair into.

"I love you," he murmurs into the darkness behind her eyelids.

"Hmm. That's not just smart—it's genius."


	9. The Fragile Light of Comprehension

The sunset light stretching out over Block Island Sound is the saddest thing to see alone. Hues of orange and gold set the quarrelsome crests of the water ablaze. It is so fleeting and fragile the colors seem to exist more in memory even as Beckett gazes upon them. Waves originating from indeterminable sources, far-flung weary travelers, rear up one after the other to dash themselves into splashes of sea foam upon the rocks. Jagged and pitted, gleaming like ebony teeth in the transitory shades of dusk, some of those crags conspire with the shadows to form haunting replications of faces. She catches glimpses of the writer who isn't here now, but was long ago. That is merely her mind at play. She knows better, but quakes briefly upon the hilltop where she stands.

The patient hand of time has whittled away at the bluff. It's less now than what it was even as little as forty years previous. The slope is more pronounced; an uncontrolled descent could take a life. But she's aware now that it's always been capable of that.

_This is it. Where you fell—where you were thrown._

Beckett is not prone to letting her emotions be swayed by some sad fancy. It is the flesh-and-blood world which has always presented her with the greatest threats. Working with the NYPD demands fortitude in that respect, and within her are veritable oceans of it. Yet there are vulnerabilities amidst all of that strength, maelstroms into which all of her prodigious reserves may be poured and poured again, never to be filled or sated. Ironic, that one such cynosure should be the man who in so many other ways bolsters her.

_Wait. Is that ironic—or just fucked up?_ Castle would know. He'd get a kick out of her asking.

Dissuaded from the lofty perch and its splendorous view, Kate turns in the calf-deep snow. She moves through it, winding gradually back around the towering lighthouse with its single broad, brown stripe. Passing from the glimmering half-light into its shadow elicits another, more sensible kind of trembling. She burrows deeper into the patterned navy scarf about her neck, curls the sleeves of her Burberry coat about her middle. Retreating thus, like some facsimile of Humpty-Dumpty holding herself together, she doesn't make it far before what she's doing brings her to a halt. Her eyes lift from the ground at her feet to skim ahead, noting the tracks of her arrival cut into otherwise virgin fields of snow. She's doubling back.

_There's a metaphor in here somewhere, something horrible and sad. But he would remark on it in a way that could maybe make it seem a little funny too._

Suddenly she's pissed. A man that's given her so much deserves far better than the past she's becoming familiar with. He deserves…justice. The woman is keenly aware of the absence of her sidearm. Her fingers curl within her gloves as a phantom sensation moves through them, the imagined shock of impact that comes with pulling the trigger. There's no face or figure in her mind to attach to the name Llewellyn Matthews. Instead her imagination conjures the outline of a figure and fills that space with oily blackness in the semblance of a man. And she disperses it with round after round, ripping the thing into fine mists of darkness that spray out across the snowfall in great swaths.

"Kate?"

Beckett stands over the downed thing, the not-man. She's not trembling or emotional, but a coldly committed harbinger. It is pure righteousness, not revenge, which drills several more rounds into the prone figure. The blackness becomes an indistinct and widespread blotch around a greater, goopy core. Spatters pepper her front, thickening with each concussive blast until it's difficult to discern where the evil stops and she begins.

"Detective Beckett?"

When John Autry's heavy hand thumps down upon her shoulder the idling vessel that is her body…explodes. The deputy is a tower of might, but she is tensile steel with the speed of a viper. Kate whirls, jerks him forward by his arm, dislodges his center of gravity with her hip, and snatches the sidearm from his hip holster even as he's rolling through the air to crash, stunned, upon the snowy ground. He looks up from his back with gaping eyes into the blackness down the barrel—a man who sees the end of everything one wrong tick away.

His hands slowly rise from his sides with the palms splayed in surrender.

Everything within her is poised, taut. Merely holding the weapon fills some painfully empty gulf inside of her. All the detective needs or wants is to fulfill the rest of the fantasy that's just played out in her mind. _Please, please, please!_ The entreaty booms through her skull, though she hasn't any clear idea exactly what she's imploring for—only on whose behalf it is done.

All the world is still. Only this exists.

John's voice, for all its depth, emerges in an unsteady murmur. "I'm not him, Kate."

Beckett draws the longest, shakiest breath. It leaves with the softly exclaimed, "Oh gosh."

"Yeah," John agrees, still a statue of caution at her feet.

"Ah _shit_!" she husks, smacking her forehead with her free hand and backing away from him. The gun shakes in her hand as it lowers to her side. Her appendage convulses around the thing, dropping it into the snow as if it wriggled free of its own accord. "Oh my god, John. I'm so sorry."

The deputy's hands flop. His barrel chest expands and retracts with a gulping breath of relief.

She lurches forward with the thought to offer a hand, but he shies from her, rolling onto his side and pushing slowly to his feet. Dark eyes are still wide with fright, his expression slack. He shifts where he stands on legs as thick as tree trunks, now as unsteady as a newborn colt. "Okay?" he asks foolishly.

"I'm so sorry," Kate says again, deeply chagrined.

"Alright." He blinks, seems to rally himself before her. "Phew. Okay. That—that was my fault."

"Like hell."

"No," he huffs on the exhale of another deep breath. "No, I could tell you were somewhere else." Knowing eyes find her and lock on firmly, probing. "I didn't know where."

Shame rises into Beckett's cheeks via a crimson mantle. For some reason she finds herself telling him, "I-I'm a good cop, John. I'm straight-up."

_All evidence to the contrary, ya vigilante bitch_.

_Shush, brain!_

The man before her frowns briefly. He looks like someone who's assembled a puzzle but for a lone piece that's been gobbled up by the vacuum cleaner. "Yeah," he finally says, but she can't tell what the word really means. He glances down and brushes away the powdery snow coating his jacket and uniform. Kate starts to go for his weapon to return it, but a flaring of wariness in his expression and posture makes her think twice. She backs away a pace as he retrieves and holsters it.

"I really am sorry," she offers again.

"Alright," he mutters. "Just shut up about it." She smiles uncertainly, and then somewhat more easily as he meets her gaze and strokes his clean-shaven scalp with almost boyish ruefulness. He's not embarrassed about being taken down by a woman—just about being taken down. That's a breath of fresh air even despite the circumstances. "We good?" he poses gruffly.

"Good," Kate confirms, though she still feels like a dunce.

"Good." John shifts the belt around his waist unconsciously and jerks a meaty thumb towards the house at his back. "Everyone's waiting. Let's go."

Beckett nods and they proceed side by side around the corner of the house. John's truck waits nearby, a blue Ford F-150 with an extended cab and all-wheel drive. The engine is ticking softly as it cools. Next to it is the red truck she noted on her previous visit with Rick. It's capped with enough snow to suggest it's been idle for days. Apparently their host doesn't get out much.

Hesitance slows Beckett's steps as they move towards the awaiting front door. She stops several yards from it and her companion does the same. "You know why we're here," she submits.

Undercover work suits the deputy. His expression gives away nothing as he considers the question. "I really don't." His bass is something else. She can almost feel the words as much as hear them. "I know what happened to Richard, to the girls and their families. I saw the impact it created for the people around them. I know what it did to this town." With a carefully neutral tone he adds, "But I don't understand why we've come here to get the story when you're marrying the person at the very heart of it all."

_Ouch_. He didn't convey the words as judgment, but it's all too easy to infer.

"It wasn't my idea," she returns, bristling.

"No," he readily agrees. "I got that much from your reluctance to come." _Oh_. When she doesn't interrupt he nods once and continues, "It's clear that Richard feels his account of events is somehow lacking. My question is: how so? And what makes him think that? Don't you find it strange?"

"So far strange is par for the course," Kate mutters. John favors her with a wan smirk. "Yes, very strange," she confirms at length. "I was hoping you could explain."

"I'm afraid not. Maybe Henry Calloway can. Shall we?"

Beckett nods and follows the deputy inside. The guy ducks his head unconsciously. She might've suggested turning sideways too—he's just that massive. There is an odd twinge of impatience that's come and lingered since she left the beach house in the man's company. It too is something that exists more in her mind. It's doubtful he could ever most fast enough to suit her, but as it happens he's a study of deliberate, economical motion. Seriously. She likes tall men, and well-built ones at that. But this is too much. He's a goddamn roadblock.

_Bah!_ Beckett slips under his left arm when he lifts it to remove his coat, quickly shucks hers and drapes it over a bench near the doorway. She dislodges her boots and ditches him in there, following the sound of Martha's voice deeper into the home. Warm lighting suffuses the place. There was expectancy of finding an overabundance of nautical décor, but the dwelling is ordinary, cozy. In fact, the only homage to the nearby Atlantic hangs in the living room upon the over mantle of the fireplace; an expansive and breathtaking print of Winslow Homer's _Sunlight on the Coast_. A fire crackles in the box. Martha and their host are arranged before it, the former in a beige glider rocking chair and the latter in… Oh. A wheelchair.

"Katherine," the actress greets warmly. "Let me introduce you, dear. This is Henry Calloway. Henry, please meet Katherine Beckett."

The lighthouse keeper turns the sleek black chair expertly upon the hardwood floor. He must have been young when he took the job, because Kate estimates his age in the early-to-mid sixties, which would've put him in his twenties when…that night happened. Though Henry's hair is white, it's still thick. His face is careworn, but his brown eyes are sharp. They widen somewhat to behold her and his jaw does a little dip of surprise.

_Why thank you._

"A brunette?" he exclaims and shoots Martha a searching glance.

_Huh?_ _Well phooey. So much for the ego boost._ She arches her eyebrows questioningly.

Martha just smiles somewhat and shrugs at him.

"Oh-ho!" the man declares as his gaze returns to her, and thumps one of the arms of his chair. "Well doesn't that beat all? It's lovely to meet you. Come, come, please. Pull up a seat, dear one."

_Dear one?_ Eh. She's been called worse. It's not worth protesting. Besides, there is a kind and caring energy about their host. He gestures to a cushioned brown leather chair nearby with a few quick flourishes, hustling her along with genuine enthusiasm. She claims it with a subtle smile of amusement.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Calloway."

"Oh-ho! She has manners too?" He beams, observing her with a firm nod as if he were a prospector conveying approval of his new homestead. "Splendid. But please, call me Henry. I insist. Can I tempt you with anything? Coffee perhaps? Tea?"

"Oh, no," she politely protests. "I'm good, thanks."

"I baked apple turnovers this afternoon," he offers, eying her shrewdly. "My secret recipe."

"Tempting a woman with an apple?" It's John's voice, preceding his entrance from the hall. "You really are an old devil, aren't you, Henry?"

Martha laughs.

The older man sniffs and turns pointedly away, viewing Kate askance. "It would seem a monstrous bull has followed you into my home. Did you notice? Is it yours?"

"Nope," Kate denies with a smirk. "Mine's merely full of bull."

They laugh, and it feels good. It pushes back the reason they're gathered together for a little bit longer. Yet even an allusion to the author who has prompted their attendance slowly brings them back down to earth. The small assembly quiets and the lack hangs upon the air for several seconds. John takes a place on the floor near the fireplace, leaning an elbow upon the broad hearth.

"What's weird about me being a brunette?" Kate poses, hoping to ease them into things.

It's not as light a topic as she hoped. John looks away. So does Martha, with a small frown. Henry doesn't, but his smile becomes tempered with a dim sense of sadness. "It's just a quirk of his—of Richard's. Maybe you've noticed a preference for…lighter shades."

Somehow the younger woman just knows. "Laura had dark hair."

No one confirms it—not audibly, but it's as good as emblazoned upon the air. Being a brunette doesn't make Beckett part of an exclusive club per se. There have been other dark-haired women in Castle's past. Still, there was a definitely a preference to the contrary at work in her fiancé's previous dalliances.

"Look what I stepped in," Kate murmurs by way of apology to all. The comment elicits a different affect from each person, but all seem sympathetic to the conversational minefield she's striving to navigate.

"It's for the best," Henry declares quietly, but firmly. "This particular elephant in the room is no temporary fixture. More apt to say that the room lives inside of it." He rolls a bit closer before settling and resting his hands upon the arms of his chair. "Do you have any specific questions? Or should I just…explain my part?"

"I usually prefer to let a witness speak on their terms," she answers with a gentle smile, "and fill in the blanks as we go, if it's all the same to you."

"Ah. That's right. You're a detective. That's…" Henry sighs and shakes his head, evidently not knowing what words to use from there. "Very well." The man moistens his lips and considers briefly. Then he begins, "I understand you already know that I was unaware of having visitors that night. Llewellyn's comings and goings—or Richard's. If I'd seen them I could've tried to…" A strain laces his voice. The man stops, clears his throat and nods once. "But I didn't. I have no role in it to speak of."

Beckett blinks in confusion before her gaze shifts to Martha.

"You're here," Henry continues, "because I know these waters. I know what happened to Richard after he…went in. Merely the events, mind you. How he interpreted them is distinctly…different."

"Oh," she issues softly. "Oh man." _That's where we're going to start—the part Castle couldn't bring himself to divulge?_ They sure as hell aren't wasting time. "Okay."

One of the keeper's aged hands crosses the gap to Martha's pair, which are fisted together upon her lap. He squeezes briefly in mute supportiveness. "It occurred in the dark of the morning—around three thirty. It was still high tide, which is maybe why he survived the rocks to be borne out to sea in the first place." Kate's eyes shift briefly to the others. Martha and John are silent, both staring deep into the nearby flames.

"From the point nearby depths increase rapidly, from two feet at the rocks to a rapid plunge of nine feet. Swimming is prohibited here because of that, but more so because of Cat's Eye shoal—a sandbar some fifty yards in length that's located several meters from shore. It's an elliptical formation from north to south, hence its moniker, but from land it presents a barrier to the tide, and is a common place for especially deadly rips."

"Rips?"

"Pardon me, dear one. Rip currents."

"Oh. Uh. The shore here is all rocks. Isn't that—I thought it was a beach thing?"

"It is, but they may occur anywhere with breaking waves." She thinks Henry would have made a good teacher. His tone doesn't wary on her interruptions, but becomes animated instead, as though the man is emboldened by her willingness to question. In other circumstances she would be similarly pleased. "Maybe you noticed earlier that the rocks here vary from one another. There are natural occurrences, but also ruins from the history of this place. Additionally, you'll find foreign deposits placed by workers attempting some manner of erosion control over the years. When all is said and done, however, the original geography of the shoreline is just as inviting as any other to this dangerous phenomenon. Waves break and disperse in an upflow that spreads out along the shore. You've seen that occur before I'm sure."

"Sure."

"Gravity pulls what isn't absorbed by the sand back into the ocean: that's the force we call undertow and it varies in intensity. Trouble arises when that dispersal is prohibited from returning to its natural state below sea level. The danger here in particular is Cat's Eye shoal, which acts as a retardant to the water returning to the sea. But there's a break in the sandbar located almost directly off the point which serves as an easy outlet. Waves comes in, break, and naturally course back out through this channel. It's a particularly violent example of the process. An average rip can pull you away from shore in as little as waist-deep water with velocity that rivals an Olympic swimmer. The force involved here is significantly more insistent."

Listening to the details in a scholarly fashion is oddly distracting—or maybe that's Henry. For a moment there she forgets that they're talking about what happened to her fiancé. But when he pauses to let the visual sink in, the image of a scared five-year-old boy returns sharply. So much so it's difficult to breathe around it.

"How did he not drown?"

"Rip currents come about from the same forces at work behind undertow, but they are different. Imagine a rip as a river flowing back out to sea. Swimmers who get caught in them are imperiled not by submergence, but by the distance they're carried from shore, which varies from modest to considerable. Some people panic and attempt to fight the current, exhausting themselves. Drowning may result, but it is no forgone conclusion. In fact, surfers often seek out rip currents, using them as transportation of sorts when they're paddling out to the break line."

"So it just…carried him away. That's pretty much what Castle told me too."

Henry looked briefly to Martha, whose blue eyes were narrowed with anger. "Yes," he said slowly. "But we would be remiss to apply the indiscriminate nature of a rip to what happened that night."

"Right," Kate replies quietly. "Because Castle didn't go into the water willingly."

"A recent estimation concluded that eighty percent of lifeguard rescues involved rip currents."

"And Llewellyn was a lifeguard. Oh damn. The ocean was his murder weapon." Rick had said something to that effect beforehand, but at the time it hadn't struck her as being so fiendishly deliberate.

"Just so."

Kate sighs. Her fingers unconsciously curl around her ponytail and clasp it. "I'm not sure what to ask in this case, Henry. Please, just…keep going."

"Of course, dear one." His voice isn't like John's. It's capable of almost disappearing beneath the crackle of the fire and the moaning of the wind against the house. "The waters here are quite literally hot and cold. We have the Gulf Stream pushing up from the south and the Labrador from the north. It's what keeps the temperatures here relatively mild throughout the year compared to places further inland. It's why the fishing flourishes the way it does." He pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts. "Currents are not as static as people often imagine. They shift somewhat depending on any number of factors. By and large, however, when you introduce something to the Gulf Stream you can safely bid it adieu. It's famously strong and swift."

Kate moistened her lips. "Rick said he was drifting for hours."

"Northeast," Henry replies with a confirming nod. "For no less than three hours, perhaps more. When I say the current is strong I mean that in terms of comparison. It moves at a rate in the neighborhood of five miles per hour, which doesn't sound like a lot…" The rest went unsaid.

_Yeah. It doesn't sound like much until you're fifteen miles from shore._

Beckett's gaze shifts to Martha again, but the woman looks to be in another world. Her eyes are glazed with a glossy sheen from which no tears escape. "So what happened? You're telling me he should've ended up a continent away or something."

"It was a storm that saved him," the keeper answers quietly. His expression seems to have aged. "Just a storm."

Kate started to reply, but stalled. The prickling of an unrealized epiphany crept along her spine. There was something eerily familiar about the situation being described. She couldn't place it though. "A storm."

"Not a local one. It happened many miles from here. But its violence created a small series of rogue waves. Have you heard of such things?"

"I think so. They're like—what, a tsunami?"

"Not exactly. Tsunamis result from tectonic activity. Rogues are typical to deep ocean. They were thought to be nautical superstition once, before we had the means to record more precise oceanic data. Despite being designated as unique forms of waves they are not necessarily the largest ones. Rather, they are abnormally large for the wave sets in which they occur. In this case, amidst a tropical storm, two large waves among the rest were sent charging westward, first one, and then ten minutes later a second. It was only a few years ago we learned about this. A group of students from the University of Rhode Island visited during the summer. One of them spoke with me and mentioned having read about the storm. It was documented by a Portuguese freighter out of the Azores—it was there, caught in that precise storm. The crew estimated the height of the two rogue waves around eighteen and a half meters—that's about sixty-one feet."

"Holy shit."

"Yes, well, no one took them too seriously. There was no data to back it up. Technically, there still isn't."

Beckett's gaze shifts to Martha and John, both of whom are looking back at her with seeming expectance. The feeling of walking the knife-edge of a realization assails her again, stronger than before. It remains frustratingly elusive. Her attention refocused on Henry. "Technically?"

"Well, as it happens there is a strikingly similar account that describes a storm fostering two massive waves of similar height."

"Rick," she says simply, because he's the obvious choice.

"Martha says you're familiar with his writing." _That's one way to put it_. "Surely you recognize the climactic scene from his first novel, In a Hail of Bullets."

_Oh shit._


	10. Unsought Deliverance

In a Hail of Bullets ends, somewhat spectacularly, with a climactic duel between the primary antagonist and protagonist upon the open ocean. It begins with a harrowing speedboat chase along the piers of Coney Island, continues with a physical altercation aboard one of the unpiloted vessels as it charges out to sea, and concludes with the protagonist's bittersweet victory. He defeats his foe, but is left on a structurally compromised vessel slowly sinking into the sea. The man is floating alone miles from shore, suffering from multiple wounds and the initial onset of hypothermia. Castle describes the night, the stars, and the moonlight in such an evocative manner. Juxtaposed to the musings of a character slowly slipping into the arms of death, it is a downright staggering scene.

But then something odd occurs.

A great wave from the open sea eases the character back towards the shore, soon followed by a second. It had seemed a strange choice at the time. As a reader, it hadn't made the most sense to Beckett. But the waves don't save the character per se, merely propel him gradually out of the current carrying him farther out to sea and into the arms of a different one that's path wound back towards land. Galvanized by the unexpected aid, the man begins laboriously swimming for shore. That's where the story ends. It falls to the reader to conclude whether the protagonist makes it home. At the time she had found it strangely satisfying.

It was a good ending. But it was never entirely fiction.

Warmth and wetness are threatening in her eyes, and the detective can't understand for certain why; not for a lack of possible causes, but for too many to provide a single answer. "Jesus fucking Christ," she issues, her voice cracking.

None of the others say a single word. Their little group is weighted by silence. It's heavy in the room, overbearing. It's pressing her deeper into the cushions of her seat and constricting her chest as she tries to breathe. Beckett doesn't merely stand, but _vacates_ her chair as though it were aflame. Agitation becomes a deep compulsion and pulls her into the hallway and down it. She hears Martha call after her, but no—no! The idea of being still is as abhorrent as it would be to any fish in the nearby sea. Stillness is death. Winter's jaws snap onto her as she exits the front door in only her Julie v-neck sweater. That is a mere side-note.

But then she does stop. Not wanting to, but dragged to a halt by the need to focus. _Don't think about it_.

She cannot help to do so.

In a Hail of Bullets is broken down into two books within the novel itself. At the very beginning, Book One is preceded by a designating page along with a rather chilling quote from Samuel Johnson: _Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged. Crimes are avenged._ Kate succeeds in forcing herself to not linger on _that_. That is for another day. Book Two's beginning is what's sent her into the maw of a frigid evening. It has a similar designating page, but no quote. It bears instead an original poem.

_God. Don't, Katie._

She recalls it now, word-for-word, as though temporarily gifted with eidetic memory:

_Now earth is far beyond, below, and from its trappings I must go,_  
_Upon this yielding, jagged path carved by Diana's knife_  
_And bench and note, chord and key, they all are strangers to the sea_  
_I must have known them somewhere else, in a different life._

_Now blurred are nocturnes of the past, from last to first, from first to last,_  
_Like music in the room next door, half heard, half understood_  
_Already I forget that sound, the one our hands together found_  
_It fades like sea foam on the shore, and I can't help but think—that's good._

_Keep your circ'ling light in the sky, its questions and its reasons why_  
_And keep away that aching, awful, blissful, lovely din_  
_I'm bound upon chaotic waves for some new place with fewer graves_  
_Where music is but memory, and memory gives in._

Eyes closed, her lips form the words as they spill through her mind—so easily, like melting snow gliding down the slope of a roof warmed by the Spring sun. They pile within her, upon her. Her chin is bent towards her chest as if she were yoked and burdened.

The door closes to announce the departure of another guest. Beckett detects the other woman's perfume upon the air well before she actually speaks.

"I don't think he realized what he'd done at first." Martha's voice is such a tender thing, so different from how the detective is accustomed to hearing it. "His first book was a whirlwind success—written, published, and celebrated so quickly. He was so," she pauses, swallowing thickly, "so young, Katherine. He didn't know to be wary of the pieces of himself that slipped through the cracks and onto the page." The woman moved to Kate's right side, facing down the driveway. "But I have no doubt now that it's because of how much of himself was in the story that the literary world embraced him so readily. It's like they knew instantly that he was going to become a writer who would endure to do great things."

"He did," Kate replies woodenly. "You can see the makings of Derrick Storm in there too—the idea of the character that was waiting to become." She hisses softly and buries her face in her hands, pulling them down her features and fisting them beneath her chin. "Christ, Martha. Th-that poem—

"I know," the other interrupts. It is a grunt of sound dredged up from somewhere deeper than her vocal chords. "He got it excluded from the second printing. Did you know? That was one shared piece too many."

"He—" she stops, the sheer weight of the words too much for a moment. "He really, truly gave up out there." Her dark eyes blur. "He wanted to…go. He didn't want to come back. His character swims for shore. But I...I don't think Castle did." Her voice shakes upon the words. "I think he fought hard the other way."

Martha's eyes well to overflowing. Her lips part around a stuttering inhalation. "He cried so hard on the beach where they found him. He kept calling for Laura." The actress trembles where she stands, and Kate's heart plummets. "At first I thought he needed her more than he did me. I was right there, but he kept calling for her. I hugged him so hard. He was so angry. Just as enraged as sad. I was so scared. Terrified. Like he'd vanish forever if I let go. I was crying. He was. Everyone on the beach was—grown men." She stalled and her shoulders rock with mute sobs. The detective has no words, feels the torrent of a matching grief upon her cheeks. "He cried s-s-so hard, beat his little fists into the sand. We knew. We couldn't _not _know. If you'd heard him, Katherine, _oh god_," she heaves, and her legs shake with the threat of a fall.

"Shh," Kate stutters softly, hugging the woman hard. "Shh. Martha, shh."

"You'd have known too," the mother sobs. "He wasn't crying because she wasn't there. H-he was crying because..._he was_."

Fuck. Hearing the words aloud is like a dam breaking in both of them.

And for a long series of moments there are simply no more intelligible ones to offer. There's nothing at all to say.


	11. The Music Man

It's quiet now, as if a payment of anguish has purchased a brief reprieve.

There are sounds in the confines of John's truck: the idling engine, running heat, and rhythmic _whump-whump_ of the windshield wipers. Those are mechanical white noise though and they hardly register. A light dusting of snow has begun to fall outside, itty-bitty flakes that spiral crazily in the air. Upon the broad, cushioned backseat Beckett and Martha sit side-by-side. The older woman's head rests against the younger's right shoulder, more real for warmth than the burden of weight. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is even, but the grasp of her hand sheltered within in both of the detective's hasn't slackened.

She's awake as sure as Kate, though both of them are wrung out. The very idea of slumber couldn't be less welcome. At this moment, amidst this time of trial, she never wants to sleep again. Because that's been the case for a long time, hasn't it? It might as well have been. And her fiancé—the man she's come to know these past several years—just another figment within the ephemeral realm dreams come from.

Well, no. That's overdramatizing the matter. _Yeah, just a bit, Katie. _But dear God…in a way it feels kinda true. What he told her earlier in the day was such a shock—to imagine him as someone who once needed saving in that kind of way. Yet that revelation pales in comparison to what has been uncovered this evening.

He wanted to…go. She knows it's true in the very fibers of her being. The knowledge has taken up a literal residence in her back between her shoulder-blades as a deep and lasting ache.

This is the man who ripped a bundle of wires from an impromptu thermonuclear weapon—who chose to act on an impulse of mad desperation rather than succumb. You just don't get a much clearer picture of someone than that. There are people who are willing to surrender, and there are people who dig in their claws and have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of the living world. He's always been the latter, always; even when she wasn't, and had simply grasped his hand in hers in mute acceptance of their inevitable annihilation.

Because she's willing to die in the line of duty if necessary—not give up, but sacrifice for something greater than herself.

Castle wasn't. He acted. Death was intolerable. It was the case in front of the nuke. It was the case when she was rooted in place upon the pressure plate of an explosive charge poised to blow them both sky high. It was the case…so many other times. Only now is it clear those moments weren't driven by compulsions of self-preservation in retrospect. No doubt he wanted to survive as well, for the sake of his family and surely himself. But by and large he was moved to save Beckett. He couldn't let her go. The man would sooner die—either in her place or alongside her—before allowing her to be taken like that.

God. You hear people say such things—hopeless romantics with their inane and empty vows of eternity. But to actually see that promise made manifest, to know the truth of 'Always' in your very bones… The woman doesn't feel wise enough to comprehend the fullness of it. Her heart isn't big enough to contain all of the emotions attached to it. These are not new feelings. Beckett has been aware of them and more for some time now.

What she didn't know was that Castle had already been forced to live through what amounts to his worst nightmare.

Her mind travels inexorably back to the moments he's asked her to…stop. To _live_ at what she felt to be the expense of her mother's long-awaited justice. All that time—he knew exactly what he was asking her to do, both the difficulty involved and the possible rewards it might hold. Fresh streaks of wetness race one another down the slant of the woman's cheeks. She brushes them away and sniffs wetly, stealthily so as not to rouse the companion leaning into her.

Detective Beckett wants to go home. She wants it more so than she can recall having ever been the case before.

But it isn't time. Not yet. Rick has asked her to hear his story, and by the heavens that bend above her she is going to do just that. It's not about balancing the debt she feels exists between them, though that would be enough. This is about knowing who Castle is—really, truly, and deeply. She wants that more.

In the dual beams of the headlights, through the sprinkling bits of snowfall, she sees John Autry and Henry Calloway at the front of the house. They shake hands as she watches, and then the deputy turns to head for the truck. A twinge of regret assails Beckett to see Henry left sitting alone there in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from his foyer. In the short time of their visit it feels like their lives have become bound by some ethereal cord, irrevocably linked by the shared knowledge of one terrible fragment of time. She wishes he could come with them. It's just as Rick told her: this story belongs to him too. But the man has his work, and it's not a nine-to-five gig. He has his chair, and the F-150 is too big for him to clamber up into. It's highly unlikely he'd accept John manhandling him in and out of the passenger seat.

They depart, and she lifts her fingers in a diminutive wave to the keeper. He waves back with a broad smile she knows is meant to bolster her.

And it does. She doesn't feel good—hell no—but what they're doing feels right. This time _she's_ acting. Never mind the occasions she didn't ask Castle about himself, or did but allowed him to dodge her inquiries. That sucks big time, but it cannot be undone. This though, what they're accomplishing tonight; it is right and good. She's moving forward with purpose.

This must be why Rick didn't come along—foremost among other good reasons anyway. He wants her to do it, and by the act dispel her guilt over having waited so long. _Misplaced_ guilt he'd call it. Whether it is or isn't will always be up for debate. But Kate can and will make it an issue of past tense—a _was_ rather than an _is_.

"Where to?" she poses softly.

John's voice seems to fill the cab even when he's speaking quietly. "Back into town. We're headed to see a man named Anton Richter."

"German," she observes offhandedly.

"In name," the driver confirms as they turn back onto Montauk Highway. "But his family was from Russia. Anton was born here in the states. Still has a bit of an accent despite that. He grew up in your neck of the woods actually. Brighton Beach."

"I wouldn't call Brooklyn my neck of the woods," she replies with some humor. Growing up in Manhattan was a cakewalk by contrast to what she's encountered across the bridge and tunnel. "What's his part in all this?"

For several seconds the only reply is the wiper blades moaning against the windshield. Then the deputy asks, "Do you know how a penniless, second-generation immigrant from Kazakhstan ends up in The Hamptons, Detective Beckett?"

"My cynicism suggests they typically don't."

"Your cynicism isn't wrong. Anton Richter was born with the rare gift of perfect pitch. He was composing by eight. By twenty-two he was widely venerated as a master of the both the piano and cello."

Beckett's eyebrows lift with a murmured, "Whoa." But then frowns, stating, "I've never heard of him. I mean, there was a time I probably should've, when music was more of a thing for me. I made it a point to stay informed back then."

"You work out of the 12th in Manhattan?"

"Uh, yeah."

"If you worked in a Brooklyn precinct you'd probably know of him."

Martha stirred against Kate, lifting her head and stretching her neck with a slight grimace. But she smiled faintly into the detective's concerned visage and withdrew her hand to touch Kate's shoulder in mute reassurance.

"Uh," Beckett said lamely, blinking back towards the front seat and its occupant. "Meaning what exactly?"

"He didn't escape Brighton Beach on his musical merits. He got out based on his talent for murder."

Beckett's eyes widen. She gapes briefly. "Wh-what…"

"His crime isn't related to Richard," John readily clarifies, meeting her gaze in the rearview mirror. "He killed his wife back in 1968 when he caught her cheating on him. Allegedly that is. No one could prove it. Everyone knew, but forensics wasn't what it is now, and the cops didn't inspire much confidence with the locals at the time. Still don't from what I hear. Anyway, no witnesses and weak science; he skated on the charges after four months of hard investigating. The case became folklore. Even now if you drop the ball and let a perp walk the other cops say you 'Richtered it up'."

"How do _you_ know this stuff?"

"We play softball against some of the boys out of the Seven-Four."

"So, we're going to see this guy…why?"

"Because he was Richard's piano teacher."

Kate just stared. She shook her head, not knowing where to even begin replying to that.

"One of the families here in Montauk took the man in," Martha said, taking over the tale. "Gertrude Haverstock, a wealthy widow." The actress paused, moistening her lips. "She…" A sigh cut the sentence off. "She sought him out and hired him as a live-in piano tutor for her son and daughter. By that point it was the only offer of employment he was likely to receive in the music business."

Beckett shook her head again. "That…makes no sense. For her part I mean."

"Mrs. Haverstock was known to behave irrationally," John offered from up front. His voice held only a hint of disapproval, but even so light a touch of it grated the words as they emerged like stones colliding in the earth. "She enjoyed causing a stir, getting her neighbors all atwitter about her latest, scandalous behavior."

"Did you know her?" Martha asks crisply from Kate's right.

The deputy's dark eyes lift to the rearview mirror again, fathomless pools marked by reflected lights from the instrument panel. "My father did. Are you telling me he was wrong about her?"

The diva shifted somewhat with seeming discomfort upon the seat. "No," she conceded at length. "He wasn't wrong. She certainly had her share of…eccentricities. And she didn't hire Anton out of the goodness of her heart." A long and narrow finger of disapproval thrust into the air over the front seat. "But your father never made it a point to brazenly judge his constituents, John Autry. Whatever opinions Frank bore he had the grace to keep them to himself. You may be your own man now, but don't think you can't still learn a thing or two from his fine example."

Kate felt a small smile creep across her lips. _Momma Castle_.

"No, ma'am," the deputy acquiesced, duly contrite. "I don't presume to have filled his shoes. Not by a mile."

"Well there now—that's something sensible to say."

Beckett was glad for the darkness as her shoulders quivered lightly. When she felt in control of her grim amusement the dark-haired woman posed, "So how did this guy end up tutoring Rick if everyone knew what he was?"

Martha stared at her for a beat. Her expression fell.

"Oh," Kate murmured. A pang of sympathy warred with her surprise. "You sent your son to him?"

"I got to know him first," the actress replied coolly. She sat up straighter upon the seat, banishing the guilt and schooling her features into something harder, almost haughty. "Say what you will about the man. Few took the time or trouble to get to know the first thing about him. We spoke at great length together. He grieved every day for what he'd done. Murdering his wife was an act of blind passion, not reason. It destroyed him as a man and a musician."

"Martha!" Kate hissed warningly.

"So you assume," John rumbled meaningfully in interruption. There was no sympathy in his voice, only an edge of warning. "Because he didn't actually confess anything to you, did he?" The man's tone made it more of a statement than a question. "Because if you told us otherwise we'd be forced to have our conversation with him from a holding cell, Miss Rodgers. There's no statute of limitations on murder."

Martha's expression crumbled as her features opened with trepidation. "N-no. He never—never said." She stopped, cleared her throat and swallowed nervously. "The point is: I wouldn't have sent my son to him if I wasn't convinced he would be perfectly safe. I never once considered it a gamble or I wouldn't have done so."

_Yeesh, Martha._ Beckett didn't say anything, but her mind was brimming with all manner of incredulous questions and recriminations. The arrogance of it—thinking she knew a murderer so well as to risk her son's safety. Good heavens. _Although she mustn't have been entirely wrong. 'Cause he didn't kill Rick or anything._ Still. It was a dangerously cavalier attitude and it sure as shit _was_ a gamble. _Swing by the precinct someday, Momma Castle. I'll show you monsters in the guise of men who are capable of weeping for forgiveness, pleading innocence, playing human like a pro—and killing you without blinking if it somehow furthered their lots in life._

"Katherine," the woman said hesitantly. "I-I swear, darling. I knew the man."

Beckett beholds her fellow passenger with no malice. But she isn't going to lie to make her feel better either. In a carefully neutral tone she replies, "Six hours ago I could have made a similar claim, Martha."

Those blue eyes seemed to flash-freeze in their sockets. "Don't you dare compare my son to…this."

"I'm not," Beckett soothed. "I'm just saying…I'm not sure we can ever fully know someone. It's in our natures to be full of surprises, good and bad. That's no denigration of us by its existence. It's just part of being human."

"Well said," John issues from the front seat, neither smiling nor frowning. He doesn't add anything else.

Martha offers nothing, only leans back against the seat and clasps her hands together in her lap. Her expression is pained at first, but slowly shifts to a more pensive one as they ride in silence together.

The truck slows some minutes later. Beckett's gaze shifts to the window at her left, though it's limned with crystals of frost and bordered by crusted ice and snow. In the view beyond sits a small, white, single-story cinder-block home on a street boasting many similar residences. There's a scarlet oak dominating the front yard, so huge-looking she thinks it has be nearing its four-hundredth birthday.

"This is it," John declares evenly.

"This was our summer home at the time," Martha reveals, subdued. "When all of this happened."

"Richter bought your place?"

"Without once haggling over my asking price no less," the actress confirms, smiling faintly. "Which was a godsend at the time. We needed the money badly. I hadn't worked in almost a year by then. He could've pinched the property for much less if he'd waited for the bank to take it away from me. That wouldn't have taken long."

John's breath plumed against the glass as he asked, "Why'd he buy it at all?"

"I…I'll let him explain. I don't think I could without making it seem…strange or somehow untoward."

"Stranger than murder?" Beckett murmured with a passing glint of grim irony. _Never thought I'd be glad to have someone outside of my jurisdiction._

"He wanted to be…closer to Richard. Well, not Richard. Not really. But greatness."

The words drew Kate's and John's stares. The former's humorless smirk evaporates. A prickling of unease rises out of its hiding place in her belly to reclaim residence in her spine, as it has so often done today. "Martha?"

"I can't explain," she returns quietly, frowning somewhat, then almost smiling. "Let's go."


	12. Calling for Help

As before, Beckett is taking a moment to herself before going inside. Martha and John have preceded her. She'd caught a brief glimpse of Anton Richter through the screen door—5'8" and lean, brown hair with a waning hairline parted neatly to the right. He was dressed in gray slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt tucked neatly at the waist. She wonders if that's normal attire or if he's trying to present himself. He might be going through his own internal processes right now; anticipating, building carefully planned emotional responses and inflections.

Either way her skin is crawling. _I don't talk to murderers, damn it. I hunt them._

The front yard is thick with snow. She imagines the ground beneath it is more dirt and stone than grass. It's probably well-tended to, like the resident of the abode, but the expansive oak has been hogging the revitalizing sunlight for who knows how many years. Anything trying to grow in its shadow would be marked for a difficult life. The thought draws her lips into a firm line of displeasure.

_Everything in the world is a grim parallel tonight_.

The detective slips a hand into her coat and retrieves her cell. Her fiancé is on speed-dial, but she dallies with the prevaricating task of finding him among a long list of contacts instead. The picture attached to him there is one of them together. Sneaky Alexis discovered them snoozing on the couch together during one of those rare lazy Sundays and snapped a quick image. Rick is on his back, barefoot, in jeans and a t-shirt with one arm curled possessively around the small of Kate's back. Her long form is in shorts and a halter top. She's half beside him, half splayed across him. Dark waves of her hair obscure most of her face where it lay against his chest, but there's enough visible to see that she looks…peaceful, as does her 'pillow'.

_An infinitely better kind of parallel_, she muses with a small, wavering smile.

A single, indecisive digit hovers over his mobile number among the available list. She dithers, questions, and rather suddenly sees her thumb touch it without her mind's permission. _Oopsy-daisy_.

He answers on the first ring. "Kate?"

Amazing how a single utterance can correct a world that's tilted off its axis. "Jeez," she says, grins broadly, "do you have that thing glued to your hand?"

"I didn't mean to answer," he says and sniffs with nonchalance. She doesn't buy it for a second. "I was _trying _for a triple Tetris and the call got in my way. I dropped a five-long where it doesn't belong."

"My record remains safely out of your reach," she purrs, playing along. "Operation Distraction is a success."

"Better than you could've hoped it would seem. I unwittingly rhymed."

"You did," she confirms with a brief, throaty chuckle. "I was gonna let it slide."

"Ah. Taking it easy on me tonight, hmm?"

There's what he just said, and what he really means—and the difference between them is one more example of how they've always communicated. It's an invitation to discuss what she's learned about him so far. But she didn't call for that. It's too fresh. Talking about it would be alcohol upon the open wound.

"I just wanted to hear your voice," Beckett reveals.

"I'm glad." The words are a warm, deep bath for her nerves to soak in. "The truth is I've been sitting here not dialing your number for at least half an hour."

"Just half an hour?" She smiles again and slips an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. "You really oughta be doing something more useful with your time."

"Uh-oh. I'm hearing something," he reports grimly. "I'm hearing what can only be the approach of an impending honey-do…"

Kate's upper body quivers with mute humor. "You'll like it."

"Oh? Go on then—wow me."

"Don't be dubious. Actually, I was just thinking about your bed."

"_Our_ bed."

"Our bed," she corrects with a swift eye-roll, but smirks.

"Mm," he receives with pleasure. "Thank you. Please continue."

"I was thinking about our bed," Kate obliges, "and how it's so big and inviting; how it's this insanely good medium between soft and firm."

"Uh-huh," he agrees.

"Great for sinking in and sleeping. But supportive enough for…other indulgences."

"Other," Castle blurts. "I like other. I _adore_ other."

"Mmhmm, me too. So I'm thinking," she smiles, "about…other…and it makes me wonder…"

There's a rough edge in his voice when he prompts, "Yeah?"

"Have you changed our bedding yet?"

"Ugh," he growls in her ear. "I knew that was going to happen, but I allowed myself to hope."

"We live in hope," she quotes. "But we sneeze in sheets that haven't been changed since the last time we were here. Switch 'em, buster, or you'll be burrowing into that nest of dust bunnies all by your lonesome."

"Shows what you know—I already have."

"Fibber!"

"I am," he admits. "But so are you. You said I'd like your honey-do. I honey-do-not care for it one bit."

Beckett shrugged though he couldn't see it. "I can't help it if your ideas of fun are warped by the proclivities that come with too many years of being a man-child. To a normal person changing sheets is a flippin' hoot. We practically live for it."

"You said 'proclivities'. I honey-do like that."

"If you use some of the letters from it you can spell the word clit," she comments, grinning again.

He huffs through the line at her teasing, but plays along. "And lips."

"Tie."

"And civil."

"And sexy."

"Huh? There's no 'x' in proclivities."

"Yeah, well, there's nothing especially sexy about being civil. I thought we'd switched games."

"Oh," he hums, drawing out the word into multiple syllables, and she imagines he's grinning. "You're being rude, huh? I didn't realize. That's my mistake." Feigning indignant draws a brief, soft laugh out of her. "We could play a math game. Solve this equation for me: three equals capital 'd'."

Kate's surprised, full-bodied laugh escapes and spirals up into the canopy of the night. 3=D is an old joke from when they were still sneaking around about their relationship. She'd occasionally text him those symbols to indicate when she was done at the precinct and ready for some…company.

Rick falls quiet for a time, and Kate's content to do the same. She revels in how good it feels to enjoy this side of her fiancé—the man that scarred and healed around the ugly wounds she's discovering tonight. The rest of the world slowly comes back into focus as it stretches out between them: the snow falling, the towering oak, and the lights in the curtained windows of the house waiting before her.

"I should go," Beckett offers to the accompaniment of a quiet sigh. "They're waiting for me inside."

"At Henry's?"

"Been and gone," she replies, pushing the words out quickly. She takes a steadying breath before adding, "We're at your old house now."

"Anton," Castle says, and that's all.

"Yeah."

"He's…an odd one."

"How so?"

"No," Castle issues slowly. "I don't want to risk coloring your impressions. Judge for yourself, Kate."

"I can hear your opinion and still think for myself," she chides lightly.

"No, I know, but…"

Kate sighs again, in a girding manner rather than an expression of exasperation. "It's okay."

There's another, briefer span of quiet. "One more stop after this," he reminds her at length. "Then you'll be home."

"On clean sheets," she slips in, though her smile is less pronounced now.

"They'll be waiting. And Kate…I honey-do miss you."

Beckett feels a better kind of ache replace the ones that have manifested over the course of the evening. She brushes her fingers back over her hair and clasps her ponytail. "Me too."

"I'll see you soon."

"Not soon enough." Touching the end button is no easy feat.


	13. Into the Spider's Lair

Anton Richter looks like a man, but over the course of the introductions it becomes clear that he is a great and swirling downward spiral of…nothingness. Light and sound fall into it, but they never hit bottom, never seem to glean a worthy return for their input.

Kate has heard about this in rare cases. Other investigators call it 'the living death', or 'the unbarred prison'. The murderer's body and mind goes on living and functioning. But the light of life within them is snuffed out, irrevocably sacrificed on the altar of whatever motive drove them to their misdeed.

_Some people aren't built to be killers_.

It occurred once in an early case in Beckett's career when a twenty-five-year-old woman, Anita Kiesinger, slew her husband and two-month-old child by cutting into the brake line of her philandering spouse's Audi before he left for work one morning. He was the target. The child was there by a cruel stroke of chance—their au pair noted a fever and the husband decided to skip the morning business to take his son to the pediatrician. _A lousy husband, but a good father. _Kate had been there as an officer when Royce did the notification. She saw the moment when it occurred, and looking back at it now the memory is colored by her perceptions: an imagined shadow passes across the woman's face. Then it's gone, and a piece of her soul—but not her life—leaves with it, borne away on the dark and tattered wings of Death. Fanciful musings aside, Kiesinger's eyes did go lights-out right there in a quiet corner of the Yoga studio. She didn't say another word to the cops or shrinks, and conversed only sparingly with her lawyer. Her hands signed her name, dotting and crossing as necessary; they fed and washed her vessel as the trial dragged on. The defense attorney painted an image of reasonable doubt and earned a not-guilty verdict. Even escaping justice garnered no reaction. Public opinion roared in protest for a couple weeks, but from Anita—nothing at all.

The woman lives somewhere in New Jersey now, if living is what it can be called. She came out of herself some over time. Only some. There was a picture of her in a magazine a couple years ago. In it she's smiling just slightly at an off-camera friend. Her eyes are still lifeless, unmarred by lines of vibrant emotion, and it's the same story in her cheeks and about her mouth. It's clean and clear.

That is Richter's smile as he observes Martha and John in turn while they describe in greater detail why it is they are all here tonight. "I'm happy to help you in any way I can," the shell of a man assures.

Such cases of extreme detachment do not meet the law's standards of diminished mental faculty per se. In order to be accurately assessed or profiled one must exhibit a return to a state of psychological stability. What's left of such people after the sacrifice of their humanity is not stability, merely a yawning absence of actionable instability. There's not much to be done in such instances. Unwilling patients cannot be helped, and living dolls with no apparent compunction for further violence don't merit institutionalization. They slip through the cracks of the system like the ghosts they are.

It's an odd kind of self-administered punishment, perhaps a glimpse of the burden of guilt in its purest form. But it isn't justice by Beckett's standards. Laws exist to be honored and adhered to. When the system fails, civilization has too in a small but noticeable manner. Circumnavigation of the rules leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and poetic—or street—justice is no substitution. It is an offshoot of anarchy. The flavor may be satisfyingly sweet at times, but there's no lasting nourishment to be gleaned for society there, only chaos.

"Katherine?"

Beckett blinks, realizes she's been staring holes into their host. She offers a wan smile to Martha, catching a glimpse of John as well. He seems to be on the same page at least. The imposing deputy's arms are crossed stiffly and his hands are white-knuckled into sledgehammer-sized fists of dislike. A flexing of his chiseled jaw sets the muscles to rippling beneath the bronzed skin.

She refocuses on the doll. "Thank you for having us, Mr. Richter. I understand it's difficult to revisit the past."

"There isn't much I wouldn't do for a friend," the man replies with a token smile for Martha. "They're a rare gift. For that matter, no former student will ever be turned away from my door. You're here on his behalf. That's good enough for me."

Just the thought of him in the same room with Castle as a boy makes the detective's skin start crawling again. She shifts uncomfortably upon the cushion of the cream-toned bergère, clears her throat. "May I ask about that? Castle being your student?"

The former piano tutor blinks at her uncomprehendingly. "Castle?"

"Rick."

"Richard," Martha offers helpfully.

_Yeah, that's what I fucking said_, Kate grumbles inwardly. This place and its people are beginning to wear on her patience. They see a different man in Rick, even Henry, who she enjoyed meeting. Worse, their perceptions are not entirely wrong. The author behaves differently with them. Clearly. No doubt it's a reaction to their expectations and their knowledge of who her fiancé was once upon a time. It makes reconciling what she knew and what she knows now both frustrating and difficult. He shouldn't change himself even subtly for anyone's benefit—not even hers. The days of needing to hide are done. _Tough titty, bye-bye kitty done—and they aren't coming back for a goddamn reunion tour_. Kate believes that's possible. She has to.

_Tough titty, bye-bye kitty?_

She shushes her amused internal version of Castle's voice, focuses on Richter as he speaks.

"Where to begin?" the man wonders aloud, looking somewhat overwhelmed.

"I first brought him to you in the summer of '73," Martha reminds him.

"Yes. I recall that afternoon. I was still a guest of widow Haverstock then, bless her heart." Kate's instincts twang like a poorly-strummed chord. Is he being flippant? His expression is neutral, making it difficult to determine. "I remember we struggled to get him to sit down and stay put."

Martha grinned and her eyes moistened some as the recollections likewise welled up. The actress turned to Beckett and explained, "It was Laura who first discovered it. She played the piano too, you see."

"As a mere hobby, not a mature effort," Richter stipulated, which is kind of a dick thing to say about a dead girl even if it's accurate.

Martha didn't seem to register the insertion, continuing with obvious pride, "I came home one afternoon and heard the music. I remember I didn't even set my things down first. I was drawn into the living room like...like I was sleepwalking. I think I exclaimed about the girl's amazing improvement as I went, but when I turned the corner Laura was standing _beside_ the piano and Richard was on the bench at the keys. I remember her eyes as she watched him. They just…shone. She looked as proud of him as I felt. After I'd recovered from my shock of course," the woman added with a soft laugh. "God. He looked so small there—so tiny and…precious."

The description makes Kate's heart flip. She grins.

John's taut features wrestled themselves into a faint, brief smile.

Richter offered nothing.

"Uh, anyway," Martha said, "I didn't know what to do about it at first. Obviously I figured it out, but it took time. It was such a shock, the way he played."

"They weren't established pieces," Richter put forth evenly. "Therein lay the uniqueness of his…ability."

Beckett frowned in confusion. "What's that mean?"

"Well, if you'll forgive a self-serving comparison, there's more than merely raw talent at work in a child prodigy, like I was. I'll spare you the complex version by simply stating: it's a streamlined relationship between working memory and the cerebellum." _Um…I'm pretty sure you just called me stupid right to my face, asswipe._ "It's an innate emotional maturity which allows for higher cognitive function. But it usually manifests in disciplines with some manner of logical framework or rules. Richard's style was...different. It defied them."

"That's a working theory," John rumbles, "not fact. You're paraphrasing Vandervert, right? Poorly, I might add. Maybe you've read some of Shavinina's work too? If you have you know that while researchers have made progress, they still can't say with certitude whether a kid's traits predetermine their potential, or whether the potential itself is innate and influences the mind to enable exceptional performance. There're still arguments for genetic endowment and environmental factors too—we may owe prodigies to their parents in both cases."

Beckett almost whoops in applause. _Go, John!_ Her grasp on his point is tenuous, truthfully, but enough to follow along at a distance. It's more than clear that their host got the message though and is not in any way pleased. Apparently the doll has some life in it yet.

"Forgive me," Richter replies slowly. "I should have cautioned that mine is a layman's understanding."

"Not at all. No one can argue that you were indeed a prodigy, Mr. Richter. That bestows an understanding of the phenomenon better than any average person's—including mine." _No shit_, the detective muses, impressed, because she sees John's compliment hit its mark. The man across from them all lifts his chin with a hint of seeming satisfaction and nods once minimally, as if conveying belated permission of the deputy saying so. If being an arrogant prick were a felony offense they could happily slap the cuffs on. Sadly, it isn't. More disappointingly, pushing their host's buttons isn't getting her any closer to a deeper understanding of her fiancé.

"Whatever the mechanism," Beckett interjects mildly, "you're trying to tell us that it was different with Rick. Is that right, Mr. Richter?"

"Quite," the man answers coldly. "For all of my attempts to train the boy, he couldn't read the sheet music for chopsticks, much less something of substance. He couldn't play by ear worth a damn either, an intuitive method of comprehension associated with prodigies." Martha's expression wavers to hear the rebukes of her son. "But..." the man inserts, and pauses, sighing mutely. He releases his tense upper body into the embrace of his chair as if stricken boneless by the memories playing behind his distracted gaze. "He managed to pick up some pieces, and I'll credit the young man on that endeavor: there was hardly a blip between him knowing one and mastering it. Too, his original work flourished, though they could not be called arrangements in the true sense of the term. I walked in on him one day as he was staring out the window, not bothering to look as he played something completely nonsensical. A fit of whimsy, yes, but also…admittedly breathtaking." Richter pursed his lips into a considering line. The detective felt her muscles grow tense. "It took me a moment to understand: he was playing in time to the raindrops slipping down the window pane. Can you imagine? Giving a light summer storm a song?" One hand lifted in a seemingly weary gesture of dismissal. "It's a small matter really. No outlandish strides of originality or lack of fundamentals changed what resulted whenever he sat before the keys." Kate's breath paused in her chest. She felt herself lean forward slightly in her seat. Her budding expectation of profundity was rewarded. "I imagine when he played the angels wept with envy of such perfection existing on earth."

_Holy shit. Wow—just…wow._

Beckett stares, unblinking. Hearing a compliment such as that from a man like Anton is tantamount to catching the sun blundering over the east horizon at midnight—it just doesn't compute.

Martha is back to beaming with pride. "He was so good," she agrees. The woman wipes at her moistened eyes, and so misses the subtle, but cruel twist of their host's lips as he regards her. Venomous disdain for the inane comment drips out of his narrowed, steel-blue eyes like the tears which slip from hers.

"You said he wasn't a prodigy." John poses to the other man. "How do you explain his ability?"

Richter's subtle sneer quickly shifts to a placid expression. He seems incapable of holding onto any emotion for long—as she'd initially suspected. "Empathy. That was Richard's gift."

_Is_, Kate corrects coolly, _not was_.

"Empathy," John parrots.

"He might not have known the piano as a true devotee does—its intricacies, language, or practical workings, but he was more than capable of establishing a profound emotional connection to music in and of itself. He described it to me once as 'feeling' what note to play, when to play it, and how. Understandably perhaps, his strongest area of aptitude was his touch. By which I mean to say—

"He's acutely sensitive to a song's theme or a note's timbre without sacrificing tempo," Kate interjects with a small smile. She has enough experience to know some of what distinguishes greatness.

"Just so," Richter agrees, "but putting it into words does it little justice."

Silence settles into the wake of the emotionless admonishment. Beckett stands apart from the others in her mind, trying to digest this aspect of the man she's set to marry. It makes sense. Exceptionally strong empathy coupled with a powerful imagination can be applied to any format—writing, for one example, delving into the minds and motives of killers for another. Both are arenas in which Castle has excelled. _Me_, Kate adds to the list, because it's so true, though she means it sexually more than anything. He can be a real dunce sometimes when it comes to _getting_ her—like any other man. But _doing_ her… He's pitched more perfect games than not.

"I've never heard him play," Beckett hears herself say at length.

"No," Richter agrees, "you wouldn't. He never played again after that night on the beach."

That detail probably should've been clear to her by now. The pieces of the puzzle have been on the board for the better part of the day. Yet she hasn't had a quiet moment to put two and two together. Now, with a horrible sinking feeling, she spares a lasting look at Martha, whose expression has grown pale, drawn with sorrow and exhaustion. _That's what you meant earlier—about me holding what happened to Castle against you personally. You weren't home, and he slipped away to follow his friend. Slipped away to be hurled into the sea, only to unwillingly return at a cost he's been paying for ever since. _In his mother's mind it may go further still. Maybe she imagines her negligence robbed the world of his affinity for music, which may after all be the truth. No, not maybe—the poem in A Hail of Bullets was terribly clear. He went into the water with his music, but came to shore bereft. He buried it with Laura.

"But why," she murmurs aloud softly.

"Why?" Richter repeats, drawing her gaze. "I wish I knew."

His voice is an unwelcome distraction. It's also the first time she feels like he's expressed some semblance of strong emotion. It's vile bitterness. Quite suddenly she sees the aged man for what he is, and was. No mere doll. Time has given him at least some level of acceptance there. He's a black and bloated spider clinging to the gossamer geometry of a decaying web. And Castle was in his clutches once. Martha's friendship would likely have kept it that way if events had gone according to plan. The arachnid would have dined peripherally on the boy's juicy abilities and used that vigor to ascend out of the ignominy of its existence in Montauk. Perhaps back into some esteem among his peers, where he so richly belonged. Both of them would have become famous—one of them for a second, long-awaited time. Anton had killed his gift of music and would have siphoned a child's in its stead.

Beckett couldn't find the words to express her displeasure.

So Beckett broke his fucking nose.

* * *

**A/N: Just one lonely chapter this time, despite having the long weekend. Which as we all know means: I suck. To be perfectly fair...um... You know, on a completely unrelated topic that is entirely blameless of my lackluster contribution, has anyone chanced upon Surviving Paradise by drdit92, or Garrae's What's Love Got to Do With It? Indulge your inner curious kitty. You shan't be sorry. You might even find sympathy for my predicament. For unrelated reasons. Also note: I'm no more a psychiatrist than an oceanographer. Grains of salt, folks, per usual.  
**


	14. Culmination of Consequence

It takes a second to realize that she actually did it; because in the woman's mind her fist hits that bitter, selfish expression of unrealized ambition and it doesn't stop. The appendage penetrates, _delves_, and doesn't stop until it is firmly lodged in the squishy parts. In the contrasting picture of reality the pianist jerks back with a yelp of pain, and a twin to his agony erupts in her knotted right hand. Now it's real.

_Oh shit!_

"Katherine!" Martha yowls, erupting to her feet.

Richter knocks back in his chair, almost tipping it over. The legs slam back to the floor as he's cradling his nose in both cupped hands. There's blood.

John launches upright too. He looks so surprised. It's almost comical.

A slideshow whirls through Beckett's mind immediately on the heels of reality sinking in; charges laid, arrested for assault, her suspension, demotion. She could lose her shield, and even if not, her career could be stalled where it is indefinitely. Nowhere among the dire images exists an ounce of remorse. But she's still taken aback by herself. Eyes wide, she stands too, watching as Martha rushes forward to help the older man. She looks at John, matching shocked expressions, and sees his countenance slowly darken. No doubt he's thinking the same dire things about her impending future, but with the addition that he's the one who'll have to arrest her.

"Please," Richter says in muffled protest, easing aside Martha's well-meaning hands.

The actress reluctantly backs off. She whirls on Beckett, livid. "Katherine! What has gotten into you?"

The detective…doesn't know what to say. _No. I do this time. But I don't know where to begin._ She just sighs mutely. When Martha looks at Anton Richter she sees something very different. She associates the man to her son's blossoming talent—to better days in general. No matter that he's insufferably selfish and arrogant, or as good as a parasite. Heavy-handed though that description may be to people unknown, isn't it at least some approximation of the crowd the actress is often surrounded by? That's probably pretty close to normal in her world. As to the pianist's darker nature…people see what they want to see. If the job has taught Beckett anything it's that you can't cure someone else's denial—like she told Rick earlier. And if she's perfectly honest tonight…she doesn't even care to try. Martha Rodgers isn't her favorite person right now either.

"Well?" the actress practically screeches.

"Well what?" she returns coldly. Martha gapes, seemingly stricken by the absence of remorse. That's almost funny too. _What do you think—that this was an accident? That I meant to give him a fond pat on the cheek and slipped?_ "I'll be waiting outside," she informs John quietly.

He nods, looking as grim as she's yet seen him.

That's when Richter starts laughing.

Beckett stops dead in her tracks. The sound is so unexpected, so out of place, that part of her worries she's hearing things. It's a wet and nasal thing owing to his injury, high-pitched and mocking. Her revolution where she stands seems to take forever, and it's underscored by that horrible unfurling of amusement.

John is staring at the guy like he's suddenly sprouted a second head.

Even Martha's expression of anger looks to have been shifting to surprise before it froze in transition.

Richter is grinning madly. His eyes, narrow and wet with involuntary tears, gleam with reflected light like those of jack-o-lantern where he leans to one side, half in the shadow cast by his high backed chair. "I was concerned," the spider hisses, hauling his form upright in the seat. "Nikki Heat would have done that sooner."

Nothing. Beckett's got nothing. She just stares.

"I worried that Richard had gotten you wrong in his characterization," Richter explains. "That you didn't have your fictional counterpart's inner fire." The hand at his nose lowers. He studies his red-stained fingers with seeming interest. "But you do. And her deadly right cross."

"John," Kate hears herself murmur. The name emerges hushed, shaky. It feels like gravity is loosening its grip. All is untethered from normalcy. She expects to see the furniture around them slowly begin to rise from the floor. Nothing actually does except for a deep foreboding in her belly that ascends into her chest. She was wrong about the man. Dead wrong.

"I see it," the deputy grunts in assurance.

"John," Richter mimics the tone subtly, and turns somewhat to look at the deputy. "I've been assaulted. I'd like to press charges." The hand upon the edge of his chair lifts enough to gesture vaguely towards the detective. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to arrest this young woman."

Montauk's imposing sentinel grimaces. His brows dip into a 'v' over his dark eyes. "You should keep up with your chores, Mr. Richter. I'm afraid I had dust in my eye when…whatever happened…happened. It looks to me like you fell and bumped your head."

The spider smiles briefly, but it's as frigid as the night pressed to the windows. "Martha?"

_Oh no_. As perturbed as she is, Beckett would never design to put the diva in the middle of this.

Martha's wide eyes blink, her expression falls. She looks at all of them, each in turn.

"She's a detective," Richter says, wincing to speak. "She serves the law. She's not above it." His brow creases with a shocking facsimile of emotion. "Please, help me. Don't let them do this to me again."

"Uhn," Martha issues, a soft grunt of ache, as if he'd struck her.

Beckett finds herself stepping back a pace, away from the spider. _Jesus Christ_. Two thoughts race one another through her mind. First: _he's been pretending this whole damn time._ Second: _what else has he pretended about?_ "You know about me. Nikki Heat. Castle. You know."

But Richter has eyes only for the actress. "I'm asking you to help me, old friend. I know you couldn't before…when you had to fit in. But it's different now. You can be as kind as I always knew you really were."

_Oh shit—what's this then?_ More ancient history returning from its grave, obviously.

"Oh my god," Martha grunts hoarsely. She shrinks away, half turning towards the chair behind her. A shaking hand steadies her there. "I—I…Get me out of here," she husks, suddenly finding her voice. The woman brushes past Beckett to leave.

_Now you see him_.

"Martha," Richter calls. The contrived emotion is gone. "You want to back me up on this. I promise you'll regret your silence this time."

"Shut up," Beckett thrusts, stepping between him and the older woman. "Martha, just go. Wait for us in the truck." Richter says nothing, but his eyes are on the woman behind Kate. After a long hesitation the detective hears faltering steps at the front door. It opens, closes, and then there are three.

"Pity," Richter comments, but he doesn't seem fazed. Blood runs from his nose unhindered. There's no effort made to stem the flow. "Still, there's physical evidence aplenty. That should be enough. Don't you two think so?"

"Maybe you should get cleaned up," John rumbles to Kate. He jerks his chin towards the partially open door of a half bath off the nearby kitchen.

"Conspiring now? Destroying evidence?" Richter flashes a smile. "My, how far the apple has fallen from the tree. I applaud you, John. Frank was so rigid by comparison. Forsaking your comfort zone to travel did wonders; you're a much more worldly man than your father was."

John eases closer, lowering until the men are eye-to-eye. "You slipped and fell. It could've been worse."

"Stop," Kate interjects quietly. "It's my responsibility. I appreciate your willingness to help. But…this town has enough goddamn secrets."

"Bullshit. Look at 'im. This is exactly what he wanted. He baited you—baited all of us."

"And who knows what else," she adds by way of agreement. "But I still did what I did."

"Oh, now, now," the spider chides lightly. "Don't be such sore losers."

"Why don't you just sit there and shut the fuck up," John suggests calmly, but his eyes flash with a level of menace usually reserved for the blind fury of nature—not for men. It's chilling enough given his intimidating presence. The neutral delivery just makes it more fearsome.

Still Richter is unfazed. "You're quite right. I'll do that, John. The more you open your mouth the better this gets."

Kate frowns at that, sees John do the same. The detective gets to the light of realization first. She jerks around, scouring the room with her hazel eyes. "Shit," she snaps. "_Shit!_ You're—what? Recording all this?"

"HD audio and video," their host confirms. "It's amazing how far quality has come in home video equipment."

The deputy pales, blanches. He's royally fucked—_we both are_. Assault would have been bad, but maybe, just maybe survivable. John trying to help her by even alluding to covering it up though… It's unreal how fast this encounter has gone downhill. By their host's specific design no less, and that's the detail which kills her. It was wrong to have let everyone convince her that the mystery was done, that the pieces left over were benign. As soon as she'd heard about Richter's wife she should have stopped, backtracked, and gathered some intelligence before approaching the man. It's just…damn. He was supposed to be helping. This wasn't a case.

Now it might be—hers and Johns, with them as the suspects.

Anton's voice slips out like an unsheathed blade. "Are we pretty clear now on where things stand?"

John growls, "What do you want, you sonofabitch?"

A severe internal plunge assails Beckett. _Oh. Oh no…_

"Why, the same thing you do," Richter replies. His tone is almost pleasant now.

_My god, what have I done?_

"Which is what?"

"Ah. Ask your companion. She looks like she knows."

"He… He wants Rick to play," Kate issues hoarsely. "But he won't," she adds, lunging for the bastard, grabbing at his collars. The giant of a deputy intercepts her this time.

Richter smiles, wincing as he does so and watching as John wrestles her away from him. "He will. Thanks to you. It was Laura who awakened him to music, and then it was gone because of that foolish, ignorant Matthews boy. But Richard can save you from your own idiocy. He can save both your lives as you know them. Love has blossomed again, don't you see? The same strange, powerful kind he had with that girl. I knew when I read the newer books. He pours the same kind of life into those words as he once did his music, though books really do pale in comparison. They are only words after all. But he's ready for more than that now. Again. Like so many songs we've come back around for a second verse, a second chance. For that he'll play."

* * *

The night has gone from cold and uncomfortable to icy and terrifying. Nature has provided some surcease from the mounting snowfall, but the detective feels her misgivings piling up in its place. The three people stand in a close huddle now, gathered in the glow cast by the dome light of the cab of John's truck. Their eyes are fixed as the deputy wipes at Beckett's knuckles, swabbing the blood from her fist. One of her knuckles has lost a cap of flesh that hangs by a thread.

A rush of nausea roils within the detective. She has to forcibly keep herself still in order to stop from thrusting the wound into the snow and scraping at it with her sleeve. The idea of her blood mixing with that…creature's. Her shoulders spasm as she gags, but forces it away immediately.

John's eyes are the void between the stars, fathomless and unknowable when he pauses and looks up at her. But his briefly pursed lips lend them the sympathy that would otherwise be easy to miss.

"Does it hurt?" Martha asks softly.

Beckett huffs quietly, says, "Hell yes." Not as much as it ought to though. She's come out of this with nothing broken or even sprained, which is quite remarkable.

"Good. Learn from it," the actress admonishes, but a compassionate hand lifts to Beckett's shoulder.

They quiet again as John withdraws a plastic baggie from one of the compartments of his first responder kit. He bags the swabs he used, and scowls at their curious frowns. "It's the bastard's DNA."

"I hope you're not expecting to compare it to a sample from his wife's murder," Beckett replies with a glint of grim humor. "That happened way before those three letters mattered."

"Hopefully it'll never be needed. But if it ever is, we'll have it available."

"Someone might," the detective murmurs. "Sure as hell won't be either of us."

"I can't believe you hit him," John says by way of agreement.

"Me?" she growls. "I can't believe you offered to cover it up. 'Dust in my eyes'," she quotes with a snort.

"I didn't know he had his damn house wired," John returns in kind. His thick trunk expands with an angry exhalation. "He played us right from the start. Who knows how long he's been waiting for this night."

"It's not that I don't appreciate your back-up," she states. "But you should've played along for his benefit first, tried to mollify him or something."

"Bullshit." He winces somewhat, favors Martha with an uncomfortable, "Sorry, Miss Rodgers."

"No, it was bullshit," the actress agrees coldly. "My goodness. I can't believe I was so blind. He's changed." Beckett meets John's gaze. Neither says anything. The third notes it happen and sighs miserably. "Changed," she reconsiders aloud, "or always was very well hidden."

"Maybe it was different once," John rumbles, using his teeth to tear open an alcohol wipe. "But coming to Montauk ruined that. My father said it himself: that man is nothing more than a center-piece for Mrs. Haverstock's dinner conversation. He thinks he's escaped back into privilege by coming here. But he's just inserted himself into a different kind of cage."

Beckett winces, hissing softly as John stoically cleans her scrape. "Jesus. Easy."

"Sissy."

Kate arches an eyebrow and favors the imposing man with a faint smirk. The night's gone to shit in the worst possible way. An uncertain future looms somewhere among the darkness in the east, waiting for the sun and the new day before it pounces on them all. Maybe this is the last time in a good long while she'll have a reason to manage even a partial smile. The dark-haired woman grabs ahold of it while she can.

"The more I hear about your father's opinion of us all," Martha huffs.

"He didn't judge, Miss Rodgers. That wasn't his job. But it was his duty to look. To see."

"Yes, yes. I respect the distinction. Speaking of which… Don't you listen to that beast in there, John Autry. I see a great deal of your father in you. He was always very proud, and with good reason."

They fall silent again, merely watching as John deftly secures the gauze pad over Beckett's knuckles with an ace bandage. It winds around and around, a little snug for her liking, but she flexes afterward without much difficulty. It doesn't feel like it's effecting her circulation any.

"You've got a healer's touch," Kate remarks, because she needs to give him something. The guy went to bat for her in a shocking way. But they both struck out hard.

John offers a brief, wan smile. "Think I'm still young enough for medical school?"

Martha turns and takes a few steps away into some semblance of privacy. A stealthy sniff of grief arises, and Beckett swallows thickly, feeling wholly up to the task of making that a duet. Headlights coming down the road forestall that. She turns along with John to squint in the glare as the vehicle slows and parks a short distance behind the F-150. When the beams cut out the nearby streetlight reveals it to be Castle's car.

"Oh shit," Beckett hisses, hurrying towards him. She didn't call him. None of them did. That means Richter must have. _How the hell does he know your phone number?_ "Don't you dare!" she snarls immediately as the author strides towards them. "Get back in that car and get the hell out of here, Castle!"

"Hmph," the man simpers. "It's nice to see you too." Her heart wrenches somewhat to see he's carrying a pair of travel mugs wafting steam. _Seriously? _His gaze locks on her freshly bandaged right hand while a subtle shift of concern falls into place. "Are you okay?"

It takes her a second to find her voice. "I-I'm fine. I'll be even better when you turn around and go home."

Castle sidesteps around her with a noncommittal sound and approaches the truck. "John. Mother." He holds out one of the mugs to the deputy. "It's decaf."

"Don't need any more help losing sleep tonight," John confirms, accepting the offering. "Thank you."

"Mother, I made you some as well, but left it with your car, which should be along—oh, that's him now." Another set of headlights turns onto the lane from up the block. It eases down towards them.

"Castle," Beckett hisses, tugging at his right arm to make him face her.

"Yes, okay," he drones with seemingly amused placation. "Here's yours." Beckett swats the damn thing out of his hand. The mug falls into the snowy front yard where the cover pops off. Creamy coffee splashes out across the snow in a steaming gush. "You wanted regular even this late in the day, hmm? I might've known." The walls are up. He's refusing to let her see. This is normal Rick Castle, a little goofy and mocking, lighthearted and unfazed by the turning darkness of the earth.

"Please don't do this," she pleads softly. Simply putting it into words makes her heart feel like it is being squeezed by an unseen force within her chest. "Don't shut me out now. And don't go in there."

"The first will never happen," he says with a strained, lop-sided smile. "You know better now. There's no surer key to me than the knowledge you've been acquiring tonight, Kate. But as to the second…you must know I have to." The curve to his lips vanishes suddenly, but he salvages the expression just as quickly. "John, I'm so sorry to have put you in this position."

"You think anyone puts me where I don't wanna go, Rick?"

_You called him Rick_, part of the detective notes with some sadness. This long day is changing things for everyone involved.

"Tonight I do, yes." The deputy's feigned bravado falls down around him like the recent snow at their feet. He's younger than Castle, and for the first time he broadcasts an air of uncertainty and apprehension which makes it evident. His career is on the line, and he needs help, but he'll never ask for it under circumstances such as these. "Would you help my mother to her car, please? I might need one more thing after that too if you're up for it. But I would certainly understand if you've had enough for one evening."

"I'm here 'til it's done," the other replies firmly, and steps away to go and greet the driver.

"Richard," Martha issues. "I'm coming with you."

Castle regards her for several mute seconds. There's so much known and more that is not swirling between mother and son. It's like a charge building up in the air, and it hovers there among them like the fading echo of an ardent benediction. At length the writer says, "He won't have it, Mother."

"To hell with what he'll have or not!' the woman snaps viciously.

"You really don't see it, do you? This is his final revenge. For tonight, sure, but also…more than that. Your friends brought him here to be their new toy for the summer. Music was all he knew. No one else is to blame for him losing it. But your buddies—they just couldn't resist their macabre curiosity. They _bought_ him: a grieving murderer tamed by wild regret and financial desperation. Gertrude may have been the one to bring him here, but tell me, Mother—did the rest of you talk about him often? Did you all wonder aloud together, muse about his misdeeds? Didn't everyone enjoy the stir the old widow caused?"

"R-Richard," Martha stuttered. She looks ashen. And guilty. "You—don't say such things to me!"

"No, I don't. I didn't. But I should've, because even as a child I knew there was something wrong."

"That man was given a home—a new life. He wanted for nothing."

"He was a bug trapped under a very pretty jar, gawked at by overgrown kids with too much money and not enough decency." Castle's expression eased to a neutral, icy demeanor. "Don't get wrong: I've long since come to understand the position you were in, how you couldn't afford to make waves and jeopardize your career."

"I couldn't! These people…have connections. It would have been suicide for my career."

"I know."

"So…you'll take me with you then. You can't play for him, Richard! You can't play for _him_ and…not me."

"Oh my God," Beckett blurts. Her cheeks actually tingle from the swiftness of her sudden pallor. "Martha…are you kidding me?" The actress has the grace to look ashamed, but at the same time there's obviously an undeniable, powerful yearning at work within her. Even in her line of work, the younger has rarely seen such deep conflict laid so painfully bare. Castle's playing must be all they've said and more for his mother to need to hear it again so badly. Doubtless it's about much more than just the music. Still. This isn't the time to hear it—it's so…wrong to even _want_ to hear it now. Her voice is taut, but she manages to conceal the undercurrent of anger. "You should go back to the city before the weather makes that impossible."

"Go ahead," Rick adds in a rumble of quiet agreement.

"I can't. I can't just go. I-I'll stand outside!"

"Martha," Kate hisses, advancing on the woman. She grasps her arms. "Get in that fucking car!"

"You don't understand," she moans, stabbing Beckett with the depths of her grief. "You don't."

"No," the other agrees hoarsely. "You're right. I know that's true, but this isn't the time. My god. Is that how you want to hear your son play again? When he's being forced into it? You want to be there watching him while that fucking animal is right there beside him? Is that really what you want?"

"It's not what I _want_," the older cries, pushing Kate away. Her eyes flick to her son as if seeking haven there. But whatever she sees—or doesn't see—straightens her spine into a rigid line. The actress slowly schools her features and wipes crisply at the corners of her blue eyes. Without another word she moves past Kate. Martha pauses at her son's side, her hard-fought poise seeming to tremble there. "Nothing's been the same since that morning on the shore. All I want—all I ever wanted—was for you to come home. All of you—home, once and for all."

Castle moistens his lips, dips his head in a slow, single nod of understanding.

Martha resumes walking to the car. She doesn't look back.

"I wasn't trying to make her feel bad," Kate beseeches softly. "I understand—

"You don't, Kate." There's an edge of compassion which softens his rebuke. "And that's okay. But you really don't. She's the one who had to pick up the pieces. You've really only seen the end result. It took a lifetime to get here. So just…give her time. I know she'll understand. She'll be glad she wasn't in there."

Kate eases closer, reaches for both of his hands. They're so warm compared to hers. "Is there _anything_ I can say or do that'll make you reconsider? Because you just have to name it. John and I—we can handle the consequences. You don't have to do this."

"Go for a drive," he replies. "Richter doesn't want anyone else here. He'll give me the discs from the recording equipment, and won't press charges. But you all have to leave. That's the deal. All I need is seven minutes."

It's an oddly specific number. "Seven?"

"Give or take," Castle confirms. "He'll want Moonlight Sonata—the first one he taught me."

First. _…last to first, first to last,_ Kate thinks, from the poem. She had assumed it was a play on words to indicate something cyclical. He must have meant the first song to last as an accomplishment in terms of applying his gift to something real-world and tangible.

"Don't do it," she protests. "I'm asking you not to. For me. If there ever comes a time when you're ready to play again, Rick, I don't want to be sitting there thinking about the _last_ time you did. Tonight. That's what he wants! To tarnish what you have because _his_ gift is gone. He can't stand you having what he doesn't."

Castle sighs, but turns somewhat to fully face her. Both large hands rise to her shoulders, squeeze warmly, and then lift to cup her face. He's so calm. It's eerie. "That's not what's happening here, Beckett."

"It is! I saw him in there. He's a monster."

"Oh yes. But he's also…a very tired one."

They stare at one another, neither backing down. It's less common for him not to. Kate's resolve wavers in the face of his strange stoicism. She frowns at the nearby house. "He planned this, Rick. He's been waiting."

"Yes," the mystery-writer murmurs again. He smiles sadly. "Look, it's not my story to tell. Go with John now, please."

"Rick…"

"Seven minutes," he interrupts, and drifts back a pace, looking grim and resolved. He turns away before she can say anything more and proceeds to the door. She can't do anything, only watch as he slips into the dimness of the spider's lair.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to everyone this time around. Your observations deserve the reply. They make telling this story so much more fun as a shared experience. For now the update itself must speak to my gratitude. As to that, it's one I've wrestled with. It's not precisely what I had in mind, but dithering has offered no epiphanies, so here we are. There are unanswered questions (like why Beckett would let herself hit Anton) which seem to be gathering, perhaps appropriately, to be addressed in the closing chapters. But for now I'm pleased to note people aren't shocked that Beckett's first impression of Anton was mistaken, which is really nothing more than a concise reflection of the show itself; the way they have to work gradually towards the truth. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this despite some lack of clarity.**


	15. Broken Beast

Seven minutes. Within that modest span of time Martha heads back towards the city and the obligations of everyday life. Tiny snowflakes resume descending, but in a fit of seeming petulance from the pair's lack of awe, or even notice, stop again just as abruptly. John's truck warms to a mildly uncomfortable temperature, banishing the chill from their bodies, but not their hearts. They make two full trips around the block. The first time neither utters so much as a clearing of their throats into the dreadful silence. The second time around Beckett's mind is so deeply intent on imagining Castle inside that she unconsciously begins to hum Moonlight Sonata. It alternates at times with wordless vocalization, her lips unable to keep such a melody neatly contained behind them.

It truly is one of the most beautiful musical pieces. It will never be quite the same after this evening. Unlike John Denver's hit, Annie's Song, the sonata delivers a more profound impact for her personally. If asked to assign a number to the matter, she would reply that she listens to it two or three times a year. The period between each partaking assists in keeping the song from becoming just another well-known collection of sounds. Delayed gratification applies to other things she enjoys; such deep affection for an experience elicits her willfully keeping it at a distance where it will never lose its special luster.

"Kate," John issues. The man's voice is raw, more a croak, and as close as he can probably get to a whisper. Those dark eyes are fashioned into pleading orbs of darkness with the faintest gleam of moisture along the lower eyelids. They are not tears—in the same manner that leaves turning over upon the trees prior to a downpour is not rain. "Stop," he requests tightly. "Please."

The detective stares at him, feels her heart beginning to thud harder and heavier in her chest. The melody of her voice lapses into quiet. Her eyes dart away, retreating urgently back to the view out the passenger window. They are sailing too close to the ragged edge of an emotional whirlpool tonight. If her companion's stalwart façade cracks, hers will be all too eager to follow suit. A blubbering mess is help to no one.

Rick emerges moments after they've passed by the front of the house on their second lap. The detective doesn't have to say anything. John grinds to a somewhat jarring halt upon the snow-swept lane. With a soft clacking of the gear shifter he reverses to put the cab in line with Anton Richter's driveway.

They witness.

Castle pauses upon the open front yard, unaware of them. The more literal moonlight has been in scarce supply, with Diana's favor largely reserved for gracing the passing cloud cover. Yet a few rebellious shafts peek through. They pour like liquid quicksilver through the branches of the oak to pool in the palms of his large hands as Castle holds them out somewhat away from himself. He stares down at them for a long, terribly long span of seconds.

Kate's self-control wavers in her breast like restless shelves of the planet's crust jostling for position.

Suddenly the author turns his upper half, glancing back towards the house. Anton Richter must have spoken to him, for the man emerges from the opened front door that's garbed in warmer interior lighting. He advances brutally through the snow in his front yard, heedlessly jostling fine sprinkles of powder into the air.

Beckett's hand jerks for the passenger door handle, but John's hand clamps down on her shoulder.

Richter collides hard into her fiancé, jostling him back half a pace. But…_oh god. _It's not an assault. It's a hug, and that's immeasurably worse.

Castle stands rigid beneath the onslaught at first. His hands hover at half-mast, as if their owner is uncertain himself what action to propel them towards. But when Richter's back and shoulders spasm in what is clearly a hard outpouring of grief they slowly, slowly rise and settle against the older man's back. The author's face is impassive in the starkness of the heaven-sent radiance—his eyes look as cold and desolate as the surrounding winter. It's too much. The painful depths of contradiction visible there are too sacred to invade with her staring.

Kate faces forward in her seat.

"Richter used us," the driver murmurs deeply in her peripheral. "Don't—don't forget his cunning."

The words are clearly aimless. Beckett makes no reply. John's telling himself as much as her. She gets it though: the old man is a spider, something dark and horrible. Yet he's also a killer who found out too late that he was never meant to be one, not equipped to live a normal, happy life while shouldering the consequences. It is the most terrible thing—taking a life. She knows all too well. And coming to Montauk, where he existed solely for the morbid curiosity and amusement of some of its upper class citizens, well… Perhaps even monsters need some mercy. That has less to do with being deserving than it does with the survivors' capacity for compassion, one of the principle distinctions between good and evil.

When Beckett looks again she sees Castle extricating himself from the embrace. He has to forcibly dislodge—such is the others desperate hold. They wrestle at one another like that, and this time John doesn't try to stop her from pushing roughly out of the truck. As she emerges Kate hears the author's upraised and hard-edged voice declare, "It's done, Anton!" before he finally has to push the pianist away. Richter falls at the base of the tree. The snow makes for a harmless landing, but the spider lingers there in the shadow as though stunned. Castle's chest swells from the brief exertion of liberating himself. "Goodbye," he says, more rasps, and turns away. His features walk a gut-wrenching line between sympathy and deeply-seated anger when he turns towards Kate and the awaiting truck.

Castle stops in his tracks to behold her. The emotions in his expression slowly ease. She actually sees it happen this time, what he claims to occur every time: he moves from the difficult present to an inner oasis of comparative calm. That makes her feel so...useless. Because it's not something she does intentionally. It's something _he_ sees, maybe even imagines, because she sure as hell doesn't feel special in a way that justifies his reaction to her presence. With a sigh of relief more evident for the resulting vapor than sound he closes the distance between them. Despite herself, warm anticipation bubbles in her blood and rises to the surface of her skin just in time to greet his hands settling at either side of her waist.

"We're done here," he says, and there's a trace of forlornness in the words.

Beckett knows her partner doesn't want to hear her tell him that Richter doesn't deserve his pity; the same way she knows he went in there and played for reasons beyond fulfilling the terms of blackmail. He won't stay long enough for her to finish assuring him that he's done far more to try and alleviate the other man's guilt and terrible loneliness than should have ever been required of him. Instead, the woman lifts a hand to her lover's cheek and tells him, "I'm so proud of you today. I know Laura would be too."

And though he seems prepared to hear that, it still almost undoes him.

One horribly shaky breath comes and goes. Castle blinks rapidly, sniffs, and presses the heels of his palms against tightly closed eyes as if to contain the tide which threatens behind them. "One more," he husks. The appendages lower to her waist again. His thumbs trace the curved ridges of her pelvic bones the way a troubled priest might caress a strand of prayer beads. "One more stop. Are you still okay to go? Would you rather head home?"

Even to Kate's ears the words sound fragile, as if a stranger were using her lips: "I wanna go home." She sniffs wetly, dabs at her nose with her sleeve, and clears her throat roughly. "Ah. God. But I'm so close now. I have to finish it. I don't know if I could make myself come back for a second attempt after…all this."

"Please." A sibilant utterance slips out of the darkness where Richter lay crumpled with only his legs visible. It descends the ladder of her spine with an icy grip. The appeal drifts without seeming direction, like a man who's lost and casting about blindly for aid within a far greater darkness than is literal at the time. "Please, please, please." A small part of Kate's heart clenches to imagine herself at the lighthouse earlier when the same incomprehensible plea had thundered through her mind. The word continues on and on at present, a litany of susurration without end, only pauses for breath.

"I'm, uh, not exactly welcome in the Matthews' home," Castle says, his expression hardening while attempting to ignore the voice nearby. It is a thin veneer over the powerful empathy they both know exists underneath. "But I'll follow along behind you and wait outside."

"I'll ride with you then."

"No," he grunts immediately. He sighs, favors her with a hesitant, wan smile. "Please."

"Okay. It's okay." They linger there briefly despite his claim for want of a little privacy. Beckett considers kissing him. Her gaze lingers at his mouth, the inviting curve and fullness there. But the author backs away a pace, moistening his lips like he knows what she's intending. Somehow she gets that too—his not wanting to start for fear of being incapable of stopping. There is a time for comfort and a time where all one can do is grit ones teeth and endure. "Almost done," she echoes his previous sentiment. "Let's go."


	16. Struggling Towards Clarity

"I remember reading this article a while back," John shares as they're driving. They are the first words spoken for several miles. "It's a doctor describing a psychiatry program being developed in Russia. Art-therapy."

Beckett glances over at the deputy. They've evidently been pondering the same thing. Namely, how Castle changed the spider into a man—a deeply agonized man—in as little as seven minutes. "Sorry to interrupt, but you realize Richter was probably reacting to _our_ aggression initially, right? Neither of us was exactly hiding it. We went in there on attack mode." Her voice quiets some. "I know I did anyway."

John shifts guiltily in the driver's seat, mutters, "Yeah. Me too. Hard to accept any murderer sitting there free and clear like that, even one that's been theoretically punishing himself since."

"Hard," Kate agrees. "He must have seen that," she continues, more thinking aloud, "and it pushed his buttons. More cops at his door, with new questions, but the same ol' contempt. He knows about you from the local community and me from Castle's books—some idea of me anyway. He was prepared ahead of time to blackmail us, but now I wonder if he would've done it if we'd behaved differently from the get-go. Martha being there was just one more unpleasant reminder. Even Castle might've been in a small way; he _is _a wealthy citizen of the area."

"What's your point?"

"No point exactly," she replies, sighing tiredly and rubbing two fingers into the corners of her eyes, "just curiosity. Maybe Richter was reacting to us inside. Maybe on a normal day he really is closer to what we witnessed outside: a broken doll consumed by guilt. That recording equipment in his house probably serves a legitimate function. I've seen setups like that before at firing ranges. The instructors use cameras to observe their pupils' technique from multiple angles. It's not an uncommon tool in any field these days. Makes just as much sense for a piano teacher."

"I could buy into the video part. Maybe I can even accept that he's not normally monster or man, but some tortured hybrid of the two. Even if that's the case though, I still think you're reaching, Kate."

"What? Why?"

"Because this isn't about Richter. You're talking about him, but what you're really trying to do is explain Castle's music in a way that makes more sense. That article I was trying to tell you about raises similar questions. It did for me anyway. It explains how art, including music, can be used in therapy to excite emotions, increase physical energy and mental well-being. It tells the physiological how and why of it all. But despite an offer of empirical evidence I feel like science isn't fully equipped to explain this. Some concepts defy analysis. They only make sense in a human heart." They slow almost to a crawl before making a right turn. Even amidst such cautionary speed the ass end of the truck slips to one side before John straightens them out. "I wish I'd taken the time to put a load in the bed," he observes. "It helps some when the roads are this bad."

"There's a reason for what we saw back there," Beckett declares stubbornly. Her digits pluck idly at her lower lip. "I'm trying to understand what it might be, that's all. Martha associates Castle's music with his innocence. It's a reminder of better times, before she came home too late to stop him from following Laura to Montauk Point. Acting out of character like she did for a chance to hear him play makes sense in that light."

"I suppose."

Kate frowns, shooting a glare over at the driver. "Are you agreeing, or coddling me?"

"A bit of both."

She gapes somewhat and then grumbles, "You're single, aren't you?"

The deputy smirks briefly. "What gave it away?"

"Take some free advice, John. If you're going to put a lady on just to end the conversation, don't admit to it afterwards."

"I assume that's a hypothetical scenario."

"It was right up until you went and did it."

"I meant the part about you being a lady."

Beckett sucks in a gasp of surprise, almost busts out laughing. She contains herself and instead narrows her hazel orbs into blades of feigned indignity.

John doesn't grin, but the corners of his mouth are twitchy from stifling one. "What about you?"

Her eyebrows flip into reversed positions. "Um…I'm engaged, remember? But thanks for asking."

"Not that," he replies dryly.

"Oh," she blurts, somewhat deflated. "Well then thanks for nothing." _First Henry and now you. What's a girl gotta do to get a compliment in this town?_

The deputy does grin this time, but pushes on, "Don't wiggle out of this. The truth is: you don't need some article or other explanation. No more than I do. You may want one, but the facts are simple enough. Richard is…gifted." Beckett has no intention of arguing that point. "Empathy isn't some pseudoscience that plays to the supernatural. There's nothing mysterious or unexplainable here. It's an exceptional example; I'll grant you that, but it's not an otherworldly one. So what's the harm in accepting it for what it is? Why can't it just be? Rick isn't the next Beethoven or Mozart. We've already heard about how he proved unexceptional in technical ability. It's his capacity for empathy coupled with a powerful imagination: it acts in place of expertise as some sort of, uh, go-between." He frowns, clearly dissatisfied with the conclusion of his observation.

Her companion is an astute man. But she can't help voicing her musings. It is her nature to seek a rational cause and effect. Castle's empathy looks simple enough on paper. It was...until she watched him disassemble Richter into a weeping husk. Kate moistens her lips, voices an alternative version of his conclusion. "His emotional connection to the music inspires his imagination, which propels him into an epiphany. Maybe he was never a prodigy, but his mind seems to operate along a similar path."

John's expression lights up with agreement. "Exactly! So you do get it then."

"Oh I get the effect it produces," she readily concedes. "I'm less sure of its mechanism."

"Does it matter though? The outlandish details to my mind were the reactions from Martha and Richter; equally bizarre, now that I think about it, in that with both of them the prominent emotion was negative. You'd think that his playing would be inspiring to them in turn—a cause for joy."

They each fall quiet, caught and held again by the too fresh memories of recent drama.

"Maybe you've guessed by now, but…I used to sing," Kate offers at length.

John turns away from the road to observe her.

"Not professionally or anything, though I used to imagine trying for that. Uh... My mother was—she was taken from me and my dad fifteen years ago."

"Oh man," he rumbles lowly, facing forward again. "I'm sorry."

"She, uh, she loved to hear me sing." A bittersweet smile comes and goes in a single smooth motion. "Last time I really belted something out for her was when we went Christmas caroling that last year together. She was killed early January. I guess it kinda became one more of those things that hit a little too close to home."

"That's a shame, Kate." He seems to mean it.

Beckett clears her throat roughly and continues, "The point is: I loved singing, but more so because of how Mom enjoyed it. Afterward, I convinced myself that I couldn't sing the same way even if I wanted to. I'd feel guilty having other people hear me, maybe enjoying it. It'd be like re-gifting something special Mom had given with the intent of it only ever belonging to me. Does that make sense?"

"It doesn't actually, no, but I get what you're saying." He smiles somewhat. "As it happens though, I was in Buck's Crab Hut when you and Rick performed for karaoke night a while back. Clearly you got over that guilt."

Kate hums with amusement, but sighs afterward. "It's less now, but still there. Castle has a way of making me forget myself like that sometimes."

"Didn't _you_ drag _him _onstage?"

The detective quivers lightly, laughing quietly. "He makes me forget about my boundaries. At that point the relationship is admittedly pointed by troublemakers at both ends of the stick."

"Confession is good for the soul."

She laughs again and continues smiling for a good length of time afterwards. It's a little strange given the circumstances, but that makes it more precious too, and she thinks Rick would be pleased to know she was finding some levity. It's his specific intent after all, right?_ You are the one who asked John to ferry me about. Well-played, babe._

"So what's your point exactly?" John asks. "I lost track of it somewhere."

"Hmm?"

"We were talking about Martha and Richter feeling guilty instead of happy when Rick plays," he clarifies.

"Right. We don't know how Martha would react to hearing him play again though, to be fair. But in regards to Anton…I'm not sure it was his reaction at all: that's what I was working my way towards. That's why I'm a little, uh…unsettled I guess. By comparison, my capability for singing never changed. I know that now. But how, and more importantly, _why_ I sing has. I can discern that difference simply by how people react to it."

John frowns. "I don't understand."

"Hmm. Okay then, forget the comparison. That's tricky to grasp if you haven't performed in front of an audience before. Try it this way instead: whatever the truth may actually be, let's assume for the sake of argument that Anton really is still capable of feelings, and what we saw inside was just him lashing out in response to our aggression. Let's also assume that everything I just said is false. That gives us two unique possibilities."

"Two roads diverging in a yellow wood."

"I'm starting to understand why you and Castle are friends." The man grunts noncommittally, which elicits a smirk from her. "Anyway, using either example there are, logically, two different conclusions we can make about Castle's…ability."

The driver still seems confused, but offers a slow and dubious, "Okay…"

"First possibility: his empathy is a double-edged weapon. In this theory, which Rick would go ape-shit over by the way, Anton felt nothing at all—a pure doll of a man. He used us the way he did simply because it amused him to cause everyone pain. Our behavior was immaterial. It was his final revenge, as Castle described it, and was always intended to be. By that logic though, the emotion we saw him express outside wasn't his at all. What we saw would have been a direct reflection of the music itself, most likely of Rick's feelings about playing again, and Laura specifically." Kate pauses as the words tumble around her heart. Even amidst a purely academic discussion about her partner the emotions rise up, seeking to overwhelm. "Uh," she continues lamely. "Oh. Yes. His empathy. It's been honed over all these years to the point that it's like an arrow shot from a bow." She illustrates by shooting her left arm forward to smack the dashboard with the tips of two fingers. "It sticks right into the audience member, a literal transmission of his emotion into the target."

"Whoa," John murmurs doubtfully. "That's… If that's true we need to sign him up for the X-men."

Kate snorts, rolls her eyes. "Again—this friendship becomes much clearer."

"Honestly, the science there isn't far-fetched at all. Sad music makes us sad—nothing weird about that."

"Not normally, no. The strangeness lies in the _degree_ of the effect it has, which in Richter's case looked pretty goddamn extreme; especially," she adds, stressing the words now, "if we assume he isn't independently capable of emotion. See what I'm getting at? You don't just flip a switch and decide to feel things again. But he reacted as if that's exactly what happened. It was like night and day. That's as good as a supernatural experience in my book, assuming the theory as a whole is true."

The deputy's jaw shifts and flexes as though he were chewing on her proposed scenario. "Agreed," he replies easily enough. "I can see why you'd be distressed and looking for answers: that's a pretty wild theory. And yet…after seeing what I did…" He shifts in his seat again, looking uneasy.

"It's highly unlikely," she offers reassuringly. "Non sequitur even." _And yet... Indeed._

"Go on then," John encourages. "What's the second possibility? Assuming that Anton was reacting to our behavior at least in part, and is capable of some measure of remorse…"

"Theory B? Lex parsimoniae."

"Huh?"

"Sorry. I rarely get a chance to say that in conversation. Sounded cool, huh? I'm kind of a smarty-pants, you know." John's massive upper half rocks with a brief, mute chuckle. "It's Occam's Razor. Richter is just human enough that Castle's empathy, though his music, is capable of reminding the killer of what it's like to be fully human again. Frankly, his reaction is all too fitting in this scenario, because I can't imagine a worse kind of torture for the man than to hold normalcy in his hands again only to watch it slowly run right back out though them like so many grains of sand."

John shows no sympathy, but his respectful silence suggests it. At length he offers, "It helps explain the hug. Maybe it will fade, but at least he got to feel it again for a time. At least he knows that he's still capable of feeling it. I imagine that's more than a small relief for a man like that."

"He's capable through Richard," Kate stipulates evenly, and frowns afterward to have used his full name.

"Through Richard, yes." The driver eyes her askance again and his jaws shifts in further contemplation.

"What?"

"I'm curious," he rumbles cautiously. "It's a pretty personal question though."

"You can ask," she replies with a mysterious smirk.

"Do you want to hear Rick play now, after seeing what we've seen? Seems to me like either scenario is equally devastating for people who've maybe...lost touch with some pieces of their hearts."

Beckett frowns and presses back into the seat some while crossing her arms. She doesn't answer. Instead, she eventually says, "Both theories are pretty surreal. Honestly, I don't expect either is true. Hell, maybe it's even a mix of both to some small degree. I'm hoping the Matthews' will offer more information, maybe help clarify the details for us."

John shifts one hand to point a thick digit over the steering wheel, indicating the expansive mansion at the end of the private road they've been following. "Speak of the devil."


	17. What Drives Him

An almost unconscious breath of relief escapes upon their emergence from the paralleling forest. The headlights of the truck might as well have been hitting a wall such is the density of the foliage. Darkness seemed to press back against the light instead of yielding; the shadows were reluctant to disperse and too eager to return in the F-150's wake. Myriad overlapping fauna compete along the forest floor and the trunks of so many trees stand like the iron bars of an immense cage. In the spirit of such a metaphor, however, it doesn't feel like they are entering into confinement. Rather, there's a strange sense that they are the prisoners, and have escaped into a place to which they are as ill-suited as they are unwelcome.

A sprawling neocolonial mansion occupies nature's protective huddle.

John circles the full-loop driveway by dead reckoning. All is overlain with virgin snow and any previous tracks concealed. The grounds are impressive—at least four acres of mostly open field. A few isolated stands of trees dot the landscape here and there: white pine, black oak, and flowering dogwood. The deciduous varieties are naked, but elegant in the moonlight, like dancers frozen in first arabesque.

According to John great effort has been expended over the years to maintain the natural habitat of this area, which includes excising invasive species of trees and shrubs. It is an endeavor most other landowners are either too busy or merely too ignorant to emulate. Lydia Matthews is the brains behind that. She's earned two PhDs, one in Molecular Biology and the other, more recent, in Environmental Science and Engineering. She occasionally guest-lectures for a course at MIT: thermodynamics of biomolecular systems—_whatever the heck that means_. For some reason this information comes as a surprise. It's actually a little unsettling. The passenger has a difficult time imagining such a capable woman out here tending the land, hosting friends or business partners with similar cultivation in mind, and raising a family—building a life that would eventually implode. Because if Lydia, with all her intelligence and obvious determination, couldn't manage to raise a child right, how does an NYPD flatfoot who eats most meals on the go and sleeps in fits and stages between crime scenes?

_Focus, Katie_.

The mansion itself is simply breathtaking, classic design and function wed to contemporary aesthetics. The traditional veranda has been sumptuously elaborated; it's deep and wide. Hallmark columns are present, six total, but are thick Tuscan versions fashioned of gorgeous, burnished oak. They gleam in the golden light of two antique lamp fixtures. The exterior as a whole is comprised of granite stonework joints and wood shingles painted a handsomely deep, dark walnut. Two pairs of bay windows with fixed white shutters flank the veranda to the left and right, and fold-up doors for two-car garages stand at both ends of the house.

John says it is a six bedroom home with three actual stories including the basement, or terrace level, altogether spanning over 8,500 square feet of living space. Some of the architecture has been carefully preserved from the original manor that stood here in the late eighteenth century.

"There's always been a Matthews here," John tells her now. "Godfrey owns the same furniture company that his family's fortune was built on. It's less successful these days, but that's due more to the events of their lives than anything business related. The reputation endures. Actually, the shift in supply and demand over the past few decades has made the existing pieces more valuable than ever. There're a number of them in the White House right now. The capital building in Albany has several rooms almost exclusively furnished by them."

"They're that good, huh?"

"They are," John replies, "but they're also patriots, and the synergy between quality and the family name commands respect, especially throughout New England. They lost two sons in the Revolutionary War and more in both World Wars. The Matthews are well-documented warriors, and those who didn't, or couldn't, have been active supporters in other ways. Obviously they aren't alone there. It's...interesting when people who could probably use their connections or wealth to play it safe continue to live honorably. More so, I think, because you won't hear them advertising their efforts or sacrifices. That's part of what has always set them apart to my mind." Dark eyes reflect the lights of the house he regards. "Men and women with noble hearts have lived and died here. It's hard to accept that I'm living to see the final days of this proud family."

Beckett says nothing, moved by her companion's grief.

John clears his throat, says, "Sorry, am I rambling?"

"No," she answers immediately. "I like knowing."

The other nods once, but shifts in his seat with seeming discomfort for having volunteered his knowledge and thereby his enthusiasm. _Not exactly a sharer, hmm? I hear ya, big guy. _He puts the moment firmly to bed when he observes, _"_You must have more pertinent questions to ask before we go in."

She does, but they're not specifically his to answer. The dark-haired woman turns upon the seat to look back through the tinted rear window of the cab. Rick's Mercedes hybrid is parked behind them. Moonlight runs like water across the machine's sleek lines. It's too dark to make out any details of the occupant waiting there.

"If you're having second thoughts—" John stops when she turns to him.

He's learning her fast. The look is all it takes.

Kate gets out, flinching somewhat as the cold immediately clamps down on her. She draws her Burberry coat tighter, ties the belt at her middle rather than fastening the buttons. The scent of the surrounding woodland overshadows that of the nearby sea. Breaking waves are audible, but only just. Untamed hedges of Sweet Pepperbush and Northern Bayberry present a visual barrier between the home and the open arms of the Atlantic. John circles the front of the truck to join her. She twitches in surprise when Castle appears at her other side.

When her partner changed earlier he dressed in black, a rare sight. It is a suit, nearly as uncommon, and the virgin wool is deeply dark; he's his own isle of shadow among an already proliferate sea. The familiar aroma of Black Afgano is present, richly appealing, but so faint it must be from a previous application of the cologne still clinging to his three-quarter-length trench coat.

Now, blue eyes serious, his expression forbidding, Castle looks from her to John. "We're expected."

The heavy bass of their third fills the immediate area as he confirms, "I talked to Godfrey again just this morning. He said any time after six was fine. It's seven-thirty now."

Castle just nods in reply, but he seems troubled while studying the mansion.

"We can call them," Kate offers. "Double-check that we're still welcome to be here if you're worried. No one's come out. Maybe they don't know we're here yet."

Both men shake their heads. John elaborates, "There's no reception out here."

Beckett digs around for her phone. No bars. That fact is no surprise in and of itself now that she considers the matter. Castle's house is likewise removed from the cellular network. It employs a microcell signal booster to pick up the slack though. Considering the Matthews' are business owners it is surprising that they do not. There's a small, strange tick of vulnerability that arises from being cut off in such fashion.

"I dunno how you guys do it," John grumbles.

"How we do what?" Castle asks.

"Live by the shore like this. I can understand the Matthews—this place being what it is to them. But you actually chose to have a place by the coast. Doesn't make a lick of damn sense. You're thalassophobic for crying out loud. You're literally living in denial of that."

"Alexis loves the ocean," the author replies with a shrug of his broad shoulders. A faint smile touches the corners of his mouth. The explanation doesn't seem to satisfy their larger friend, whose scowl only deepens. "Technically I live in the city anyway. I only vacation in denial."

"Don't get smart with me."

"Was I using the tricky big words again? Apologies."

The comeback is immediate and almost fondly delivered. "Asshole."

"Ah, there it is: that infamous Montauk genteel. Look, Beckett." He points at John. "A real live snob."

Kate frowns, coming back to the present more completely. Their back-and-forth would be decidedly amusing normally, but she's relented more of herself to detective mode now. That and the subject which prompted their banter is a mystery to her. "What's thalasa-whatever?"

"Thalassophobia," John clarifies, crossing his thick arms. "Fear of the sea."

"It's a mild case," the author protests, but she doesn't miss the meaningful glare he shoots the deputy.

"Bullshit." John eyes Kate askance, says, "I took him deep sea fishing once, not knowing. By the time I realized something was up he was as white as the hull. Ended up curled into a frigging ball on the deck of my father's boat. Even when we were docked again it took half an hour to get him on his feet." There's a subtle but telling pain lacing the words, an enduring shame and regret for the officer having put his friend in such an uncomfortable position, however unknowingly. "I suppose I'm exaggerating now, huh?"

Beckett's muscles are tense in her neck and shoulders. Hazel eyes stare deep into blue, but what she sees in her mind is the two of them trapped in her sedan during the Linchpin case, inexorably sinking into the Hudson River. The lower half of that watercourse is more a tidal estuary, the waters frigid and brackish. At the time he'd seemed okay, all things considered. Now she wonders just how intense his fear might have been while coming so close to drowning in saltwater for a second time.

"It was choppy that day on the boat," Castle replies at length to their friend, but his gaze remains on Kate.

"It was," the other concedes.

"Living near the shore is a big difference from being out there in it," her partner continues. "I can handle the water just fine. It's the, uh, the deep which elicits some concern. There's an indefinable point when the land is far enough away as to become," he pauses to consider, brow furrowed, "more like a dream for all the sanctuary it provides. And the big waves...I remember them." He turns away when he quietly adds, "I can feel their…obscene eagerness whenever I get too close. I feel how much they want me back." He seems to mean it literally.

The detective says nothing. Her jaw is clenched so hard it aches. If she opens her mouth surely all that will emerge is some horrible sound of unintelligible lament. The more that is discovered the less she feels like she knows the first thing about him—this man who will be waiting for her down the aisle in three months.

"Kate," her fiancé beseeches simply. He's looking at her again. Worried. Worse: worried on _her_ behalf.

"What—she didn't know?" John grunts. "Oh man. _I'm_ the asshole."

"Damn straight you are," Castle snaps, but without real malice.

That elicits a soft note of amusement from the detective. "I'm fine," she fibs.

"You should be," John declares, nudging Rick off balance with an elbow. "He's the one who didn't volunteer anything. Don't feel bad for not knowing. Or if you must at least let yourself be pissed at him too."

"Hey," the writer protests, but he looks like he agrees wholeheartedly.

"I'm the one who asks questions in search of the truth _for a living_," she reminds the imposing man.

"Well firstly, Rick's not a suspect to you, Kate. We don't interrogate the people we care about. We know that line. We need it. It's part of what lets us keep our lives and the job distinct from one another. And secondly, you are asking. Now. Ignorance is nothing to be ashamed of. Willful ignorance is."

Castle nods in firm agreement and she's staring down a pair of supporters now. Two against one. Bad odds, especially when each man on his own is more than capable of being a handful. She's grateful for their understanding even if it feels misplaced, but quite annoyed that their attention keeps getting turned back around to focus on her. _This trip is about you, Rick. Damn it_.

"Can we talk about the Matthews?" she finally ventures. "Someone clue me in before we do this."

"What do you want to know?" Castle asks.

"I…" she pauses, faces her fiancé squarely. "I wanna know why we're here." His countenance does well to betray nothing of his thoughts. "I wanna know before I go in there, Rick. You can't aim me at these people with no clear target. The only questions I can think to ask will upset them. Is that your goal?"

"No," he blurts quickly, and by his darkening expression immediately afterward he clearly realizes she knew the answer before asking such a silly question.

"Alright then," Beckett inserts before he can clam up. "Spill it."

"She's right," John supports. "I've been wondering the same thing all night. You could've told her everything yourself and saved us all a lot of trouble and grief." A heavy hand rises to forestall any interruptions. "I know you have your reasons for doing it this way. I know that, okay? But it's time to make them clear to us, my friend. Before this goes any farther."

"Further," Castle replies.

"Huh?"

"Further not farther. The first implies metaphorical value and the latter physical distance. You mean further."

"We've been all over town," John submits with some exasperation.

Blue eyes narrow in seeming consideration of the counterpoint. "Hmm."

"Castle," Beckett inserts warningly, even though part of her wants to smile. These two are turning out to be quite fun together. But now is not the time.

The author sighs, shifts restlessly where he stands. He gestures to the house nearby. "Can we at least get out of the snow first?" His companions allow him to stall for a few more scraps of time. The stairs are wide enough for the three to ascend abreast one another. They form a close huddle under the glow of the outside lights, each with their arms around their torsos for warmth. For several moments after they've settled, however, their guidepost throughout this journey seems uncertain of where to begin explaining himself.

"Everybody's been saying there's no mystery here. You don't secretly disagree with that, do you?"

"Llewellyn is guilty," Castle assures her, but quietly, with his gaze traveling the windows nearby for any sign of the home's occupants. "There's no question in my mind about that." His tone is calm and thoughtful, as if he instinctively knows she only asked in the hope of prodding him towards the true question.

John follows her lead. "You've never been satisfied about his motives."

"No, I haven't."

Kate tilts her head somewhat. "We talked about that—his graduation being the trigger. That fits. As you'd say: it's a good story."

"That's what I've been telling myself all this time. But there are…holes. Possible inconsistencies."

"There's always some wiggle room when it comes to motive—you know that by now. That's why we follow the evidence."

"I know," the novelist agrees. "I'm not claiming my doubts are sensible. They're certainly not factual."

Kate turns somewhat to let her gaze skim the collection of white Adirondack chairs lining the space. She settles upon the curved edge of one and the other two assume opposing seats. The wood is cold, elicits a tremor of displeasure in her thighs. "Were you hoping I'd come up with an alternative conclusion by talking to the people involved in both your lives?"

"I… I don't know, okay? It doesn't make sense! None of it does. It never fucking has." To hear him swear like that only punctuates the depths of his agitation. It's pretty rare. "I was hoping…I wanted to see if you could…"

"O-okay," Kate stammers quickly, because he seems on the verge of throwing his head back and howling in frustration. "Take it easy, babe."

"That boy took to murder like a duckling to the pond," John mutters darkly. "I dunno what questions you have now, Richard, but I hope you at least understand that much. He was always going to do what he eventually did."

Castle hesitates to answer.

"Oh Christ," Beckett moans softly, going rigid with sudden realization. "Is that it? You think _you_ did something that set him off?"

"Why did he go after Laura?" the author returns. The question arises in such a plaintive tone, so stealthily desperate for comprehension that it wounds her to hear. "They didn't hang out together. They hardly knew of one another. So, why his sudden interest in her? Maybe it wasn't. Maybe his interest was in me." It's a startling question, because it's this brand of lateral thinking that has led their cases to conclusion more than once.

"What if that turns out to be the case?" John asks evenly. He stands again, looming over the author angrily though the emotion is on behalf of the man he's intimidating. "Does that make it your fault he did what he did? A five-year-old child was responsible for Laura's death?"

"I'm only trying to understand," Rick explains, looking pained. "It's not about blame. Can't you see?"

John frowns, leans upright again and broods in silent consideration.

"You knew Llewellyn then?" Kate asks her partner. "Beforehand I mean."

"No. We crossed paths a few times, but nothing stands out. Not that I can recall now."

"Then you've got your answer," John inserts. "There's some other connection, something with Laura."

"Or one of the other victims," Beckett reminds them. "As a serial killer he may not even have a logical motive. We should really be looking at his first kill if you want to discover whatever triggered his escalation."

"No," Castle argues. "Laura is the one. I see what he did, damn it. It's why she was where she was in the order of their deaths. He put her there in the middle so we wouldn't know she was special—his true intent."

Beckett's eyebrows soar. She looks to the deputy, but he meets her gaze and gives a subtle shake of his head, which tempers the sudden rush of curiosity in her blood. _No evidence to support this_, the gesture says.

"I see what he did!" the writer says again, but harshly, passionately. "I just can't see why!"

There it is: the preeminent question which drives them both, and the origins of his fascination with the macabre laid bare to her at last.

"It's possible we might never know," Kate inputs gently, touching her other half's knee. "Nothing would make me happier than to help you find answers, Rick. I just don't want you to get your hopes up. We both know people just…do things sometimes. Perfectly normal people have motives that can be multi-faceted things difficult to comprehend. Monsters like Llewellyn live by different rules entirely, ones we can't even fathom."

"I just want you to try. I feel like you can do this, Kate. I feel it in my bones." He scoots forward on the seat and actually trembles visibly as he continues. Beckett leans away in response, unaccountably wary. The rate of her heartbeat becomes a gallop within her chest. The very last thing she wants is him pinning too much hope on her. _God, please, not this time._ Disappointing him would be devastating. "I know you don't believe in fate, but I think maybe there's something to this—what binds us. And it's more than good coffee and great sex."

"Nice," John mutters quietly, grimacing. He strides to the far edge of the veranda to lend them privacy.

Beckett is hardly aware of it though. Her partner's thrumming excitement and the certitude in his voice are weaving a deeply disquieting spell through her mind, heart, and limbs. As off-putting as his faith is, there's nowhere to run and nothing she can think to say at that moment to dissuade him. She's unwillingly transfixed. All that exists is his voice, uncharacteristically passionate and urgent, and the swiftly expanding suspicion that what he's revealing to her right now may be one of the most important things she'll ever hear.

"I meant what I said earlier," Rick goes on, "that you don't need fixing. But we're both…less than whole too. You know what I mean." She does. Of course she does. "Things are missing. There are gears in us that should be turning that have been halted by one tragedy or another. But think about the ways we've changed over these years together—they ways we've grown. Healed." It's true. They've been good for one another. Bad too though, and it's a relief to see his expression so serious, as if he's recalling the same, because it means he's not looking back through rose-colored glasses. "I think about what happened on that shore and wonder: what purpose did any of it serve? And I'm at an utter loss. So I look for some kind of balance instead, and what I come up with is you. You," he stresses deeply, blue eyes gleaming, almost feverish. "I don't know if Llewellyn was some preemptive price tag for this or if you're some sublime act of mercy from the universe. All I know is that it balances so perfectly that it…oh God, Kate." His eyes flutter to half-mast and roll back until the whites are visible, as if the emotion behind the words were too much to bear. "It's so good it hurts. And I hope it does for you too. I mean in a good way—a balancing way. Don't think of it as fate if that helps. Think of it as—

"—as two people who are simply…special together," she murmurs breathlessly, shaken to her roots.

It's how he described his relationship with Laura.

Castle looks devastated by the words at first, but then slowly becomes grimly exultant. He's not trembling anymore, seeming free of the fervor that gripped him. He would be after unloading something like that. Good god. Beckett can't recall having heard him describe their relationship before—period. Let alone in such a manner. She thinks…she thinks he just blurted out his wedding vow. Beckett teeters within, in some ways uncertain how to receive it. On one hand this estimation of them is just out there. Almost laughable for the way it is pinned to forces beyond their ken. He must know she can't accept that. Not her. But on the other hand…there is a frightening, awe-inspiring sense of alignment to it all—balance, to use his word. Now she's trembling, even though she knows better, because his words paint such vibrant pictures in her mind. They make her want to find a very still and quiet place to be alone and ruminate.

"What are you thinking?" he asks softly. "Am I losing it here?"

"We made this, Castle," she tells him finally. "We took the risks and put in the effort to get where we're sitting now."

"Of course, yes." A flash of wetness reflects the light when he moistens his lips. He starts to add something, but pauses and ultimately doesn't. She hears him regardless: _But the circumstances that arose in order for us to be capable of taking those risks…that brought you to my book launch in the first place. Isn't it possible to imagine someone or something out there thinks we've earned this—each other?_

Maybe… She imagines her mother's case, the ultimate question mark and source of pain in her life. It was Castle's presence which acted as an unsought key to opening the long-sealed doors of it and inching her closer to answers. To Dick Coonan. Her fiancé did that, through actions of specific intent and unwittingly. Now, following the logic of cosmic or karmic balance, he thinks she's the key to discovering answers _he's_ been seeking.

And God, there's a thoroughly shaken part of her which is inclined to believe…

But no. It simply cannot be. There's no ephemeral scale striving to correct itself here. There's just life and its chaos. Patterns are bound to appear within the whirl of its complexities, because it's human nature to seek them out. It is the yearning for some sense of underlying order which created concepts like fate or destiny.

"I just see life," Kate admits, hoping he's not disappointed. "But Rick—that's magic to me. Life is."

Her fiancé nods, but his gaze is far away, lost in musing. There's a strain evident in the set of his brow though, and she knows her somewhat conflicting estimation has become a tether that is keeping him from floating away, carried off by romantic notions. That's a good thing to her mind. Isn't it?

John turns some to look over at her. The movement draws her attention. His expression conveys sympathy and concern for her bearing the burden of Castle's hopes, but also narrow-eyed consideration—as if he thought such faith might be well-placed. Two against one again.

_Well it's not well-placed, damn it! I work evidence, not spout off baseless conjecture based on the hearsay of a few strangers. That's Castle's specialty for crying out—_

Oh.

Beckett slowly stands. One wayward hand rises to her forehead and presses as if holding her head together amidst the sudden, overwhelming surge of insight. _Oh, no, no, no._ It can't be. "Holy shit," she croaks.

"What?" Both men jab her with the word in unison.

"Oh _shit_!" she blurts, eyes widening.

"_What?_" they demand again and then frown at each other.

"Stop that," John complains mildly.

"Kate!" Rick growls. "What is it?"

"I…" But no. Oh God no. Not yet. "I—I need to talk to the Matthews. Let's…go inside."

"Oh _please_, Kate," the author sobs. He's not crying, because the need goes leagues deeper than that. The sheer desperation apparent rattles her to the very foundations. His hands capture hers with painful hunger. "Please just tell me if you know."

It takes time to find her voice, to coax the frightened thing past her lips. "I don't, Castle. I don't know. I just…had a thought. I'm not tossing it out there until I can speak to these people. Trust me, okay? Please, babe." Of all the times it would have been better to keep her cards close to her chest… She'd give anything to travel back in time a few seconds and receive the idea without ever giving any indication. It is not one likely to bring him comfort.

Just the opposite, surely.

_Please, please, please let me be wrong. Please God make me be wrong_.

* * *

**A/N: Hey guys. Father Vengeance here. I'm posting this on John's behalf as he's still dealing with internet problems (I'll let him tell you more about that, heh). He's sending me updates via standard mail, which I'm typing up to post on his behalf for now (his cursive is sickeningly elegant). It's not ideal, obviously, but it's an opportunity to finish this. Having spoken often and at length recently, I can assure you he's been equally upset by the latest round of delays plaguing this piece. Given that he won't be here to answer reviews he's not expecting feedback. Personally, however, I think this story deserves it. That and more. I'll be posting these as I receive them, so anyone following my stuff must forgive the delay. It's just too good to let sit. Finally, please forgive any errors. Neither of us are flawless in that respect.**


	18. These Guiding Lights

Castle accompanies them to the front door.

Beckett turns somewhat to blink at him. Confusion and concern pull her from a deep well of misgivings. There's an almost somnolent aura about him now. He moves stiffly, and she doesn't believe the cold alone to be evoking such. It brings about an odd mental comparison to stories she's read about lycanthropy. He's revealed so much lately, previously uncharted capacities for anger and grief. She feels like he's trying to contain within himself more than is acceptable by the laws of physics. And she's worried _any_ answers will elicit a violent transformation worthy of a horror story, whether it's emotional or physical. How much greater will the damage be if it's one that supports his already professed self-criminations?

Kate lifts a hand gently to comb the hair at his brow to one side. "I thought you weren't welcome here?"

The novelist blinks in turn, frowns as though he's come this far without being fully aware of it. No retreat is attempted despite that. "I'm a reminder," he explains in a still raw voice, "not a literal trespasser. I did the Matthews a disservice by not explaining better. They'd have me, and gladly." His gaze roams the ceiling when he continues as if reading a message carved there. "Their acceptance only makes visiting that much harder."

Phantoms of tortured thoughts and emotions dwell within the orbs fixed above them. Shadows contour his features with the lowering of his chin to its neutral plane and for an instant the motion of them creates an illusion of those ghosts pouring out of his gaze, gushing black down his cheeks. It is so strange to behold him like this. It simply won't normalize in her mind that he carries darkness equal to, perhaps even greater than his light.

Beckett purses her lips and pushes the thoughts back. She's not wallowing in guilt anymore, nor indulging in further comparisons of the past and present. There's a much bigger issue to deal with—monstrous in fact. "Don't come with us because you think I have answers, Castle. Don't put yourself through that. It's a baseless theory." As startling as her freshly plucked idea is, it remains only that. Just because it makes sense in a horrible way doesn't make her right. "I'm not even confident in it. I was surprised when it occurred to me. That's all." He stares her down without expression. The man is no fool. It may be true that she doesn't _know_. But she's absolutely terrified she does. He saw that, maybe still sees it. It is too late by far to conceal.

"You guys."

They both turn towards their third, but John's gaze is fixed upon the front door. Closer now, they can see that it's unlatched. The narrowest of wedges is present between door and jamb, a glowing line of interior light.

"That's," Kate starts, but pauses. She looks to each man in turn. Her answer to the halted query is written in lines of surprise and unease there. No. This is not some small town courtesy for expected guests.

"Godfrey," John calls, startling her. He eases the door open. Warm interior light spills from wall sconces with octagonal glass shades, lending soft-watt radiance to an inviting vestibule. The hardwood floor is draped with a large, rectangular runner resplendent with bold autumn hues. "Lydia? Anyone home?"

Kate eases back a pace unconsciously, driven by a warning hum of instinct. Or maybe it's an overreaction after a long day of unpleasant surprises. "Is this normal? It looks like every light in the house is on."

"Come on in," Rick murmurs hauntingly, as if dictating a story from the home's perspective. "See how well-lit I am? All is well. No secrets here. No monsters lying in the shadows—why, no shadows at all."

There's no shame in admitting it: the words and the manner of their delivery are frightening. He's not playing around by doing that either. It's a legitimate point: the false sense of security all the light produces is a tempting lure to enter and explore. Beckett stopped too, but she couldn't have explained why. Sometimes her partner's cunning in adopting an adversarial mindset is just plain unnerving.

"Wait here," their fore instructs, and steps inside.

"John, wait," she hisses. He stops, frowning over his shoulder at her. "Don't…" _Don't what, Katie? Don't do his job and investigate?_ She expels a forceful breath, says, "I'm coming with you."

"We are," Castle corrects with a dark glance her way. He isn't asking.

Beckett purses her lips, but strides in after the deputy with her partner at her back.

"Hello?" the imposing man booms.

She winces, but says nothing. He has to check. The woman yearns for a reply that doesn't come.

"Are you armed?" Castle asks quietly.

"No."

"I thought police officers were allowed to carry out of their jurisdictions?"

"We are," John answers for her, without taking his searching gaze from the space before them all. "But not into a private residence. Not without permission. There're limits." That being said, he crouches and draws his slacks up over the cuff of his right boot to reveal an ankle holster. He straightens with the weapon held out in offering. She goes for it only to see Castle's larger hand closing over the grip and taking possession.

"You wouldn't know an intruder from the occupants," he reminds her.

Beckett scowls as he checks the load and reinserts the clip. "It's a .45," she says instead of arguing. "It'll kick more than my backup does, and it only has ten rounds."

John issues a soft huff as though amused, but the expression wilts when their gazes meet and he sees her bemusement. He turns back around with a slow shake of his head. _Oh shit. That's not nothing_. Sure enough the man grumbles, "Jesus, Rick. You're fucking marrying her, brother."

"What now?" she growls, but her heart flutters with apprehension rather than anger.

"Nothing," Castle calmly reassures. "You know I can shoot. That's all he's talking about, Kate. John and his father are the ones who taught me how to handle firearms."

"Oh." Oh thank goodness. One hand rises and pushes back through her hair in relief.

"You're sure it was us doing the teaching?" John mutters ahead of them.

Kate looks sharply at her partner, but he's smirking faintly. It's merely a comment on his aptitude then, which she already knows to be above average. Apparently his range of expertise is also more pronounced than she was led to believe. That's okay. 'More' is to be expected when learning about someone in greater detail. So is 'different' for that matter, but the second is harder to accept in quantity.

"You've got that look about you again," Castle intones as they advance through the foyer. The house opens up around them into an elaborate and spacious main hall. A split central staircase leads to the second story in mirrored, curving paths. Paths branch to the left and right, and beyond the staircase ahead the house unfurls into what looks like a single chamber of unknown function. Double doors stand closed to a room at their immediate left, and to the right is an elegant dining room open to the area beyond but for a series of supportive pillars—more Tuscan influence there. "Like we're changing," Castle elaborates. "Or as if I am anyway."

John hesitates as their guide, turning with a frown in one direction, then another as though uncertain where to start their search. The dithering is justifiable; the place is massive.

"Aren't you?" Kate murmurs. She whistles softly through her teeth to get the deputy's attention and widens her eyes pointedly. _Let's go already_. He frowns back at her, but nods and heads to the right.

"Not at all," the writer answers. He waits for her to proceed after John, takes a position at their rear since he's the one carrying. "Your perceptions of me are. This is why I didn't say something sooner. It took everything to claw my way back from what happened, and no small amount of support from friends and family. The way you're looking at me though—it's like none of that effort or those sacrifices count for anything."

"That's not true!" she hisses quietly, outraged. "I don't—I don't think that, Castle. Jeez. Don't you think I know better? Me of all people?"

"That's how it _feels_. It's not what I believe to be the case." He sighs. "What I'm trying to say is: I have more appreciation than ever for you taking me back that first year we worked together, when I'd poked my nose into your mother's case. I've waited so long for closure. Suddenly I saw this…this beautiful opportunity. Maybe I would never find mine, but I was convinced I could help find yours. That's—it's no excuse, of course. I see that so clearly now. My presumption, hypocrisy; because I knew then exactly how it feels to be invaded by someone else's need to know. Even a well-meaning desire to help hurts. It's not something that can _be _helped. Not really." She pauses, not even breathing by this point, eyes glassy as she looks back at him. "You let me come back," he adds, and smiles slightly. "You really are an extraordinary woman, Katherine Beckett."

"No shit," Beckett replies with forced nonchalance, and both her fiancé and the deputy ahead chuckle briefly despite the circumstances. Yeah, that's weird come to think of it: the deeply private woman doesn't mind them having this discussion with John right there to overhear. It's rare she feels so comfortable around strangers. Their humor masks her taking a deep and a steadying couple of breaths. She nods for their vanguard to continue on.

The dining room to their right is lit by a chandelier. It looks like real crystal and the metalwork of the silver frame has the telltale craftsmanship of antiquity. This single item is probably worth more than her entire collection of heels. "I still wish you'd told me about this sooner," she says with careful gentleness. "I could've asked, but you could've offered. I'm not making excuses or accusations, but you know me, Rick. It's not really my way to go prodding into other people's history." Kate doesn't add: _And now you seem to know why. _She loves that. It's a lesson she would never have wished upon him, but it's a precious gift: to be understood.

"I should have offered," he agrees. "It's…difficult. I know you understand that."

Along the wall to their left are a handful of paintings spaced evenly apart and lit from below by small lamps on adjustable stems. They're mostly landscapes, seemingly of the local area. Productions of local artists perhaps; she doesn't recognize any of the pieces. One of them depicts Montauk centuries previous, with Native American canoes berthed upon a rocky beach. In the background, several greater colonial ships are visible anchored off-shore, looming and portrayed in brooding colors. No figures are present—only their respective vessels. It's a stark and intriguing comparison of two wildly different cultures.

"Where are you?" she hears John issue in a frustrated growl. He means the Matthews. He's just checked the two-car garage at the end of the hall. "Empty. That's normal though. There's an attached laundry room back here. We might as well clear that now too."

"I wonder if Lydia knew we were coming," Rick muses as they enter the garage. The gray cement floor is pristine: not even a drip of oil exists to indicate habitation. Three long, wide tables stand along the north wall, each affixed with heavy-duty vices. The wall above them is layered with swaths of metal pegboard. A daunting collection of automotive tools hang there. It's all clean and well-organized. "Maybe the stress induced another episode."

"Episode?" Kate queries.

Rick waits to reply, moving up alongside John to provide cover. A short set of stairs awaits them. They clear the laundry room in a matter of moments while she lingers behind. There's a flutter of both concern and pride watching Castle perform the act. He has watched her team long enough to have the tactical advance down pat. He even moves like a pro, as though the act has been practiced to fluidity in private. _For research_, he'd surely claim.

Castle backs out of the room moments later, followed by John. The latter is downright scowling now. He extinguishes the light and closes the door behind them. "No one leaves the lights on in an out-of-the-way room like this on purpose. Not every single light." Anger gilds his bass as it unfurls and echoes in the garage. "What's going on here?" Neither of his companions answer, and he doesn't wait for one. "Lower east wing's clear," he continues, seemingly as much for his own benefit. "We'll check the west, then north, and come back for the rest of this one." A flexing of muscles reveals the clenching of his jaw. "Save the terrace for after, upstairs for last."

It goes unsaid, but all of them know: if there's someone else in the house with them, he or she could be moving freely about while the three of them are clearing opposing sections. They'd need at least another dozen people to adequately contain and properly search a dwelling of these proportions.

"What were you saying about Lydia?" Kate asks Rick quietly as they head back towards the foyer.

"She's a fantasizer," John offers from ahead of her. _Okay. _Apparently that's supposed to be some kind of explanation. "The real deal, I mean," he adds solemnly. "Paracosm and all."

"Para—what?"

"Paracosm. She lives in an imaginary world of her own creation. Not all the time, of course, but often."

"You're kidding me."

John is silent for a moment, drawing her attention by the lack. He pauses to meet her gaze and holds it simply by the set of his grave countenance. "August 9th, 1985. Dad was escorting a prisoner transport through our jurisdiction to Riker's Island. Mom and I went along in a separate car, visited the Natural History museum in the city, made a day of it, you know? My father drove us all back that evening. On the way, in the middle of the night mind you, we find Mrs. Matthews walking east along Highway 27 in her nightgown." The deputy's dark eyes shift alertly back to front, but then return. "This is miles from town. The night is overcast, black as pitch. She was…strange, so colorful and full of life—like a kid herself. I mean, she played with me in the backseat as we continued the trip home. Tickled me and played twenty questions. I was too young to understand she wasn't herself. All I knew was that she was fun and sweet. And so witty," he adds with a brief, faltering smile.

Kate's expression is taut, strained by the haunting note of affection underlying the other's voice.

"Uh. We brought her home. It was not…pleasant. She didn't get angry or act out. She simply started crying when the house came into view, like it did for us a few minutes ago. It was so quiet." A hush similar to the one being described creeps into the depths of the man's voice. "I'd never heard such silent grief before, nor seen despair turn someone into a crumpled heap." John quiets for several beats. By some internal signal he rouses, clears his throat roughly. "That wasn't her only late-night sojourn, and it grew worse over time—which I learned more about after I joined the force and became familiar with our previous casework. A tourist picked her up maybe a year after that incident. His statement reports that while Lydia was in similarly good spirits at the time, she was speaking a made-up language. He had to bring her to the station for lack of other options."

"Jesus," Beckett issues softly. She turns some to look back at Castle. He's impassive, a study of painfully controlled emotion. He's also ashen. The blood has drained from his face.

"Stop looking so guilty back there," John growls. "It's not your doing."

"Keep moving," Castle replies evenly, but good heavens, his glare is pure lethality, like crackling, bluish nets of electricity barely held in check, writhing with eagerness for a target to unleash upon.

The deputy sighs, but so quietly even Beckett barely discerns it from a foot or so behind him. He continues onward and they emerge back into the main hall. Their guide stops there long enough to take in the space again, noting, Kate presumes, what she also does; nothing is altered from when they stood here last.

"Maybe that's why no one's here now," Rick suggests as they file down the east hallway. "Maybe knowing we were coming set her off and Godfrey is out looking for her."

John says nothing, but motions the other man forwards. They stack up against a set of double-doors on the left side of the hall—the same room that opens into the main hall through a different set of doors. It's empty as well though, and Kate enters when she hears Castle's hushed announcement, "Clear."

It's an oval office—a breathtaking one. There's an almost Victorian feel to the home in general, a suggestion bolstered here by the presence of so much heavy, ornate furniture. A round table dominates the central portion of the room. A few books rest upon it, pulled from one of the many shelves of them. There's also a tall column of diamond-shaped shelving bristling with rolled up maps, a few of which are unfurled and weighted upon the table. They all seem to pertain to the region and waters around Long Island. They look old. So does the muted, lime-toned wallpaper, which is sectioned by hardwood molding and pillars along the rooms circumference. Paintings adorn the walls—people this time, men and women, and though none bear names to identify them each has obvious genetic markers of the other. Standing pedestals house ghostly white busts of similarly identifiable figures.

John nods to one painting that features a tall, broad-shouldered man. His chiseled features are quite handsome, and his proportions convey not only fitness, but formidable strength. The clothing which adorns him is colonial era, including a powdered wig and an old rifle. "There's a reproduction of this is hanging in the station. That's Jeremiah Matthews. The patriarch, if you will, for the American arm of his family. He was the first."

"He died shortly after that was commissioned," Rick murmurs from the table where he's inspecting the small pile of books. "Taken prisoner along with about a thousand others during the Battle of Long Island. He was injured in the fight—shot in the leg if I recall correctly. It wasn't a mortal wound, but he was one of the many unfortunate people to be interned aboard the HMS Jersey."

"That's correct," John supplies evenly. "Afterwards, his wife, Aurora, bribed two British soldiers so that she and her two eldest sons could sneak onto the beach at night and search for his body. There's a letter she sent to her sister in New York City. It's on display in the Museum of the American Revolution. In it, she claims that she couldn't leave him there like that, but that once she'd found him, it was equally hard to leave the other men behind, many lumped together in shallow graves." Kate turns, notices Rick doing the same. But John is regarding the painting, not them. "They had to carry his body four miles along the shoreline to get back to where they'd left their horses. But they did it. They brought him home. That, my friends, is love."

Kate's gaze shifts to Rick, her eyes wide with trepidation. Yeah. His expression is raw with it, the freshness of this information, though maybe a stranger wouldn't be able to tell. _Bodies, graves on the beach, death on the water_. She could happily march over and slap John Autry across the back of his goddamn head. Lost as he is in admiration for the tale, their towering companion doesn't seem to comprehend what he's revealed. _Love!? You just described the inspiration for how and where Llewellyn disposed of his victims, you idiot!_

"Let—let's keep moving," the novelist rasps, headed for the door. Kate reaches out, but he doesn't stop, and her fingers graze down his right arm without finding it in herself to clamp on and stop him.

* * *

**A/N: That's all I have for now. Damn it. I loathe waiting, even when it's worth it! I have an idea where this is headed, and...ugh! I wanna _know_. Anyway, freak-out aside, I've been asked to pass this chapter along with a note about a kind of error in the writing: the repetition of Kate reacting to Rick's hidden depths. Which is true I suppose. It's been consistent. I wouldn't have described it as being stated to the point of irritation, but hey, I'm just the messenger here. John says he's aware and will endeavor to cease beating us over the head with it. I think that's a peril unique to writing in spurts. You recapture what you want to say without remembering the point has been made previously. Anywho, hope to have more for this soon.  
**


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